Unto a Heart of Stone
by jackiejones
Summary: Bella,turned into a vampire in the year 1837, and Edward, determined to enter the Great War against his family's wishes, must face the potential for both love and despair embodied in one another. BxE
1. Chapter 1

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Bella**

**London, 1837**

**CHAPTER 1:**

Fire. There is fire all around her, licking at her limbs, torturing her skin. Thought becomes difficult as the smoke infiltrates her lungs, clouding her mind as thoroughly as the smoke filled room spinning above her head. Her will to live seeps away, like the tear that slowly flows, dripping first down her nose and cheek, and then into her hairline. She feels...sad? She cannot quite force the feeling to take a definite shape; it hovers over her instead, filling her chest with an ache that is separate and more debilitating than the smoke. Sadness. It dances before her in the shape of the flames, taunting her, but refusing to pause long enough to clarify its purpose or its source. At the edge of her awareness, another emotion takes shape: wonder.

She did not think that death would feel like this. She is surprised by the calm that she feels. She thought she would be terrified. She thought she would struggle. She has been close to death so many times, fought against it like an animal, clawed for one more breath, one more morsel of food, traded her dignity and body for shelter and sustenance, all to live. For what?

The sadness returns. _For this_? It asks. All those little pieces of yourself for sale, auctioned for pennies. Shattered and broken and hocked on the street. Only to die like this?

The wonder reasserts itself. _It could be worse_. And even in the haze of her mind, she recognizes the truth in that statement. Burning alive, but it could be worse. The laudanum dulls the pain, fills her mind with a hazy euphoria, keeps the reality at bay, makes her feel at peace with this end.

She coughs. Large, choking coughs that wrack her small frame, shaking the poor cot where she lies, leave her even more lethargic than a moment before. _Just be done with it_, she thinks. Her vision has narrowed to a small circle. Nothing of interest to rouse her from what should be, but somehow falls short of, an horrific death. Just a dirty ceiling, stained with the grime of the factories and the broken hopes of an endless series of tenants. Pain tickles at the edge of her awareness - but she closes her eyes and cannot be bothered. Her hearing remains acute, and she listens to the crackle of the flames that now climb up the wall and into her field of vision. She feels a moment of panic when she wonders whether the other girls will be safe, will smell the smoke and flee in time. But even that instinct of her nature - to worry for them, care for them, shield them from harm - cannot reach her now. The sadness embraces her, pulls her down into the abyss.

* * *

Time stops or time flies by -- either way, Bella Swan floats on, oblivious.

* * *

Eventually, she experiences the terror she had been expecting. Why did she think she could hide from it? Avoid it? Outrun it with the heady fumes of laudanum? When has she ever been so fortunate?

Pain laughs at this - that after all she has experienced, she can still have a moment of total naiveté. But even this haughty voice of irony is fleeting - the bitterness burns like everything else that was once _Bella. _The terror reasserts itself. It consumes her, eating her alive, devouring her every thought, replacing everything it touches with a single word: _fire._

There is nothing but pain and fire.


	2. Chapter 2

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 2**

The pain does not recede slowly. Instead, it is suddenly doused, and she wants to cry with relief, blubber out her gratitude to God or whatever deity has seen fit to save her. Her eyes are open, and the world tilts on its axis. She wonders whether this is heaven, or whether she dreams, because the world around her is both familiar and alien at the same time.

"Bella?" a voice asks tentatively behind her. She does not remember moving, but her perspective of the room has changed: she is now standing, crouched, looking at the man who spoke. Her confusion only intensifies.

"Dr. Cullen?" Without a conscious decision, Bella stands and faces him. Her voice is not her own. Higher. More melodious. Alien. But beautiful. She contemplates speaking again, just to hear more.

"Bella. I am certain that you have many questions. All I can think to say is that I am relieved. I was so worried..." His voice fades away, and it is somehow both the same and different from..._before_. Pain swells at the idea of "before," and she instinctively shies away from the memory.

Though he seems to expect her to voice these numerous questions (and they are there, crowding her surprisingly expansive mind), Bella stares at him in silence. He waits with what appears to be unlimited patience. Somehow it seems to her that they could contentedly wait forever, just standing there, poised and still. Somehow there is room to think of many things at once. She simultaneously absorbs many details: the strange room in which she finds herself, the feel of air in her throat, each distinct smell in the air, and the altered - enhanced? - appearance of Dr. Cullen as he looks at her quietly.

Instead of a question, the words that finally pass through her lips are a statement: "I am different."

In his answer, she hears, just maybe, her salvation: "Yes."

The fear that fought and conquered her in the fire is nowhere to be found, so Bella simply says, "Tell me," and he does.

He explains in the quiet and patient way that seems such an integral part of him that she is, in fact, undead. She takes it better than he expects. Perhaps even better than she expects of herself. She thinks it is because she has been mostly dead for so long, undead simply seems the next step in her own, personal development. He explains about being a vampire, his rational tone creating a surreal context for this very fantastical explanation. He tells Bella that it is now her nature to thirst for human blood, and as he says this, she can feel the ache hovering in her throat, throbbing with an almost living pulse, though she had not even noticed it until that moment. He seems to promise her an immortal life of violence and deprivation, and she can only feel a desperate bitterness. How is this bleak future different from _before_, she wonders, except that she can no longer even look forward to death?

And that is when he says it.

"There is another path, however. You are free to choose." Bella holds her breath, and only realizes at that moment that she does not even need to breathe.

"What path?" Her voice is not beautiful now. It is harsh with desperation.

"Bella, I choose not to feed from humans. I hunt animals, instead. When I first awoke to this life, I hated what I was. I tried so hard to end my life, or un-life, or whatever you wish to call this existence. I found that I could resist the pull of human blood if I fed on the blood of animals, something I could accept. I had lived by the flesh of animals before, why not the blood of them now? It keeps me strong, though perhaps not...satisfied. It is the reason for the golden color of my eyes - yours, and every other of our kind, are crimson." He seems to pause, to allow her to digest this.

"Yes." She says, and she can tell that he is unsure whether it is an assent of acceptance or one of commitment, so she elaborates. "I will live as you do. I have had enough of blood and violence...before."

Bella can tell that he wants to caution her, or reassure her, or anything else that might free her of an imagined obligation to imitate him and his pacifist convictions. But Bella has chosen, there is nothing left to discuss, about this issue at least. "Dr. Cullen--"

He interrupts her, "Please, Bella, call me Carlisle." She takes in this information, readjust her ideas of him, and finds that the name fits him. Fits what she knew of him.

"Carlisle, then. I am...thirsty."

* * *

They return from Bella's first hunt in a companionable silence. She finds the life of a vampire, or what of it that she has so far experienced, to be surprisingly pleasant. Her sense of self seems to have expanded to fill this newly renovated version of herself, leaving behind the clumsiness and frequent accidents that had been such a part of _before_. The speed of running fills her with exhilaration; the act of hunting had been natural, instinctive. The burning ache in throat has diminished, though Carlisle promises that it will return frequently in the beginning. As they race back, following the trail of their own scent, she lets the dramatic changes in her circumstances begin to sink in.

Palatial in its proportions, the Keighly house and estate, located many miles outside of London, had been purchased long ago from an aristocratic family whose fortunes had waned. Beautiful and spacious, Keighly encompasses its own wooded park, well stocked with deer and an occasional herd of boar. Carlisle has resided here for only a short time and owns property on several other continents. He explained his wealth by telling Bella his story - how he had become a vampire nearly three centuries ago, centuries he had spent traveling the world, studying, working to make life better for those who lived. He had spent some time in Italy, he said, and told her of the family there, the Volturri. He labored to emphasize the one rule of her new existence: _Keep the secret_. They spoke of his loneliness, even amongst his vampiric companions there, how they seemed curious and a bit disdainful of his determination to abstain from human blood. He had also studied in Germany at the universities where philosophy and theology had been debated, moving on to the classrooms of Paris before the Revolution had disrupted his studies. Since then, he had returned to the land of his birth, England, contributing what he could to the practice of medicine, a field of research in which the Continent was vastly superior to his own race. He had been contemplating relocating to the New World before the recent fire had compelled him into action and altered both of our lives.

The manor house was mostly kept in sheets and dust cloths, as Carlisle necessarily retains few servants and entertains almost no guests. "Appropriately Gothic" is his only comment, made with a quirk of his lips. Only a small portion of the house is "fit to be lived in" and Mrs. Vincey, the elderly housekeeper, lives in a small cottage in the park, as she had for the last fifty years. After he had secretly brought Bella's nearly-dead body to his home, Carlisle had announced that Mrs. Vincey should expect the incipient arrival of his younger sister, a sister whose existence had heretofore been unknown. However, most of Carlisle's background was shrouded in mystery, and luckily, Mrs. Vincey came from a long and honored tradition of protecting the privacy of her employer. It was what she expected of the landed class, of course.

As she enters through the enormous glass doors leading from the garden into one of the libraries, Bella reviews the fabricated background that Carlisle had created for her. Pausing to inhale appreciatively the musky smell of old paper, her head spins a bit at the social elevation she had experienced in such a short time; how many girls wake up from their own death to find themselves a landed heiress? Skittering away from the thought of _before_, she focuses instead on the present. Isabella Marie Cullen, age nineteen, born to William and Augusta Cullen, sister to the twenty-four year old Doctor Carlisle Cullen, whose 'parents' had died of an undisclosed illness when she was just a child, while traveling on the Continent. Isabella and Carlisle, away at prestigious boarding schools, had been well provided for, and her brother's decision to purchase and settle himself at the Keighly estate had led to Isabella's recent change of address. She huffed a sympathetic chuckle at the thought of all the matrimonial hopes Carlisle's arrival must have elicited in the well-to-do families in the neighborhood - hopes that were bound to be disappointed.

Carlisle's voice startles Bella out of her reverie. "Bella, all that I have is yours. You must make yourself at home."

His generosity loosens the tight hold she had been straining to maintain on the one question for which she was uncertain whether she wanted an answer: "Why?"

He seems about to answer in relation to the invitation he had just put forth. Bella clarifies, "Why did you do it? Save me? Change me?"

His face freezes. Had he been dreading this question? Is he worried that she is ungrateful, that she resents the choice he had made? Does he regret the decision? Does he want something of her-- something she was so desperately tired of giving? The fear on her face seems to thaw him.

"I...I do not know. I only knew that I must."

"Oh." It seems so insufficient. She wants to understand, wants direction and guidance and hope and so many other things, but this idea that he had been compelled - it falls short. Her disappointment is obvious.

"Bella - I have thought often of...creating another like myself. A companion. Someone who might also care enough for the lives of these mortals to forgo the taste of their blood. I told you before that I was lonely, but I do not know whether you can imagine how truly isolated I have been. And yet, I hesitated to commit, perhaps condemn, another to an unending existence, to take from them, from you, your very humanity. I resisted the inclination. I dedicated myself to science, to learning, to living out the spirit of Christ when he cautions his followers that 'whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me.' With my experience in medicine, I hoped that I might be of service to the--" he registers her slight grimace and seems to edit his words, "the poor of London...I felt that I could be of help. Through those efforts, I met you, Bella, and found in you something unexpected--"

She stiffens. The impulse to flee, to run as far and fast as she can, nearly has her moving before she can fully process his words.

He seems to understand her thoughts, though, and hastens to reassure her: "No, Bella, not like that. Not like them. I simply found in you a surprisingly intelligent and compassionate woman, forced by circumstances to live a terrible life. I had no premeditated intention of changing you, Bella..." he seems to linger over the memory, reliving the decision as though to understand it better for himself. "Three days ago, as I was walking to the hospital, I could hear terrible screams. When I went closer to investigate, I saw a large, decrepit building folding in on itself, engulfed in flames. Several of my patients were clustered about--"

Bella interrupts, only now remembering her last fear for the others: "Do you know if...Were any others...Was I the only...?"

His response is immediate, "Your injuries were by far the most extensive. There were a few incidents of smoke inhalation, and the girl who carried you out had some minor burns on her arms, but will recover, certainly. It was you, Bella, who seemed about to expire." He pauses before asking, "Do you want me to continue?"

"Yes," she says, deciding that she will face this now and be done with it.

"I carried you the remaining blocks to the hospital, but upon a hasty examination, it was clear that your injuries were catastrophic. And...I am sorry, but I cannot truly explain - I just knew that I needed to prevent you from dying. The thought, 'Not like this' kept running through my mind. You were completely non-responsive, seemed dead already, though I could hear your faint heart beat. I quickly pronounced you dead, and, as we were terribly understaffed, offered to wheel your body to the morgue myself. Once alone, I ran you back here, and...changed you. I remember my own transformation, Bella, and it was excruciating. As soon as I bit you, it was as though I awoke from a trance. I regretted the choice made so hastily, with so little thought - feared that you would have preferred death. Even that I was, well...thwarting your wishes."

She can hear the implied question at the close of his story and knows that his endless compassion deserves to be set free from that fear, at least. "Carlisle, I...I did not start that fire on purpose."

His deep, honey eyes bore into her own, willing her to explain further.

"There were so many times that I could not face it: what I had become. Recently, I had developed a habit of escaping from my life. Laudanum." She can see in his face that he is unsurprised.

"I could taste it. When I changed you," he explains when she pauses, the question in her face.

"Oh. I do not remember...that was the purpose of the drug, you know. To forget. I only recall lying there in my bed, wishing it would all go away. That I would not have to wake and face another day of it." She seems to choke on the enormity of the emotion. "When things were at their worst, I would try to imagine my life differently. If I had never...gone wrong."

The silence stretches between them. Eventually, Carlisle speaks, "Bella, I was so afraid that the news I had given you was the reason -- that you had determined to destroy yourself because of words I spoke, even if they were the truth."

"No." It needs to stand alone. To hover there between them, eliminating his self-doubt and freeing him from guilt. "In my drugged stupor, I think I knocked against the oil lamp. I know I watched, transfixed as the flames spilled from the glass shards to the floor's decrepit rug. Perhaps it was merely the laudanum, I do not know. Perhaps it was fear of the future or hatred of myself. I only know that I lay back on that wretched bed and stared at that hideous ceiling that I loathed. And I waited--"

"Waited to die. So, I did thwart your wishes in bringing you here?" His whisper is so soft, only her new ears would have heard him.

"No." Again, she lets the word linger. After spending so many years saying _yes_ in spite of herself, it seems Bella will begin this new life with firm contradictions. "My wish was to never be _Bella Swan_ again. Never lie down on that bed again. Never sell myself for a pittance again. Never rot from the inside; never smile when I wanted to spit; never, never feel like rubbish again." She waits to feel the inevitable blush that always had accompanied any emotive expression _before_, but realizes with pleasure that it will never happen again. The embarrassing blushes were a part of Bella Swan, and she is Bella Cullen now.


	3. Chapter 3

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

Bella

**1837**

Chapter 3

Bella's fear that she might be recognized is put to rest upon first examining herself in a looking glass. She had arrived at the hospital with burns covering the majority of her body. Her face, particularly, had been badly disfigured, and what remained of her hair had been short and damaged, some of it even singed to her scalp. The venom had done its work, traveling her veins, repairing the damage to her frame and features, leaving behind a porcelain face that she hardly recognizes, though a wig will be necessary – for eternity. How odd. The startling red irises are particularly disturbing, but Carlisle assures her that they will soon mellow and become golden, like his. This idea fills Bella with pleasure: she will look out at this new world through eyes like Carlisle's - eyes that see the good, the potential, the beauty and believe in it. She holds on to the hope inherent in that vision, praying that it will come to pass.

Standing before the glass, adjusting the attractive brunette periwig Carlisle has secured for her, Bella tries not to be impatient. Six months may have passed since her painful rebirth into this strange half-life, but her eyes resemble a blazing sunset, a disturbing rusty orange: a shade that must be hidden behind a becoming veil as they progressively test what Carlisle refers to as her 'rather remarkable self-control,' taking carriage rides through town or walking through London's parks. Today they will stretch her tolerance a bit further, boarding a railway car and promenading the gardens in Kensington. She squints at her image and resists the urge to stick out her tongue or cross her eyes – some juvenile attempt to make herself...average. Perhaps most women would smile to see themselves transformed into such an achingly attractive vision, but Bella cringes at the thought of how her figure and face will attract admiring glances. She lets herself indulge for a moment in the idea of suggesting to Carlisle that they tour Victoria's empire – a trip to the deserts of Africa, where she might dress in modest garments and shawls, sounds tempting.

"Do not be a coward," she remonstrates with herself, takes a deep breath, lets it out, and exits the room. The veil, at least, is a comfort, but it cannot give her what she really wishes for: invisibility.

Invisible is what Bella has mostly been over the previous six months. Poor Mrs. Vincey, the housekeeper, must have thought her an eccentric recluse, hiding away in Carlisle's library and "taking her meals" in private. Bella enjoys roaming the grounds and hunts often to satiate the thirst that nags at her relentlessly. No longer requiring rest, she devours more than just her share of elk and deer: she consumes knowledge just as voraciously. Keighly's library collections have been acquired over the previous six hundred years, and she basks in the luxurious opportunity to do nothing but read. Carlisle jokes that perhaps a love for books is a Cullen family trait, and Bella is pleased to think that they have more in common than just a desire to preserve human life.

Her thought from the night of the fire swims to the surface of Bella's memory: _It could be worse_. Indeed, it certainly could.

* * *

It is in the exotically beautiful gardens of Kensington that Bella sees her: Josephine. Small and lithe, she was always Bella's favorite. She had doted on Josephine, protected her as well as Bella could. Carlisle and Bella pause to admire the tastefully engineered water fountains, filling the green house with a humid scent that only enhances the aroma of the humans surrounding them. Today is Sunday, the rare day each week in which the working classes can luxuriate in freedom from service, and the press of bodies have seemed intense to Bella. They slow their pace now, and Bella feels brave enough to breathe deeply for the first time in hours. Her throat tightens reflexively and the venom pools uncomfortably, but she is becoming accustomed to the sensation, focusing instead on the beauty around her. She finds success a refreshingly new experience.

Up ahead, Bella hears a child laughing. A curious combination of pain suffuses her mind and body. There are moments when she truly hates what she has become, and she understands better why Carlisle would debate the rightness of committing anyone to this life against their will. Because as her ears register that sweet giggle and running feet, the predator in Bella recognizes easy prey. Her stomach tightens and she wants to retch in disgust that she could respond to the sound of innocent laughter in such a way.

"It passes, Bella. Believe me," Carlisle's eyes communicate nothing but heartfelt compassion and empathy, "How else could I do the work that I do?"

Holding her breath, Bella nods her head, turns away from the family, looks for anything to focus on but the thirst. And that is when Bella sees the girl. She is sitting on the edge of a fountain, not fifty yards away, and she is watching Bella.

Low and fast, Bella whispers to Carlisle her surprise and recognition of the delicate girl, dressed in shabby castoffs. He freezes, but then relaxes, and the moment of indecision and foreboding is so quickly replaced with ease and confidence, that Bella wonders, if she were not a vampire, whether she would have even registered its appearance.

He takes Bella's hand, gracefully resting it in the crook of his arm, and walks at a human being's leisurely pace directly towards the girl. As Josephine makes eye contact with him, Bella expects her to blush or startle, as she remembers most females to have done in Carlisle's company, but the girl simply absorbs his approach with her wide green eyes. He stops at an appropriate distance and bows to her as though she were an elegant, sophisticated woman and not what she really is.

"Miss Parker," he smiles as he speaks her name, as though he were delighted by their unexpected encounter, and Bella realizes that he probably is.

"Doctor Cullen," Josephine says, as she rises from her seated position near the water. Josephine Parker's voice tightens Bella's stomach in a way wholly unconnected to thirst. She is the living embodiment of "before."

Bella watches the girl's eyes absorb her proximity to Carlisle, perhaps trying to determine the nature of their relationship. Carlisle inclines his head to Bella slightly and introduces her as though this is not her very first personal introduction as a member of the undead: "My sister, Miss Cullen."

Josephine's childlike curiosity opens her eyes wider as she quickly bobs a curtsy to 'Miss Cullen.' Simultaneously, Bella wants to reach out and embrace her, but also to sprint all the way back to the safe, comfortable grounds of Keighley. She does neither. Instead, Bella barely nods her head and allows a condescending, or perhaps shy, smile to form at the corners of her lips, as a well born lady might when thrust into such close proximity with such a tragic figure. Once again, Bella thanks whatever deity might be listening for the gauzy silk veil draping across her face, obscuring Bella's features even further from Josephine's surprisingly penetrating gaze.

And with that brief greeting, they move to walk away. If Bella were not present, she knows that Carlisle would break more social boundaries, engaging his patient in a careful assessment of her health and emotional wellbeing. There is a benefit to being immortal: it does give one a sense of freedom to transgress rules of decorum. But they have already drawn numerous gazes, and Bella's sensitive hearing notes that a well dressed couple are already gossiping about them. While it might be a social gaffe to boldly speak to a common London prostitute in the middle of a very public space on a Sunday, to introduce her to one's well born sister is practically beyond the pale. They must not linger.

As Bella turns to continue moving through the luxuriant green house, literally leaving her past in her wake, she catches the glimmer of fresh, pink scar tissue on the inside of Josephine's right arm. Lightning fast, Bella follows it down towards the girl's wrist, absorbing the realization that it was she who risked everything to pull Bella from the blaze that Bella had inadvertently caused six months ago. _Josephine, as much as Carlisle, is her savior_.

Before the thought can even register on Bella's face, the girl does the unthinkable: she touches Bella. Not on her hand, fashionably gloved with soft kid leather. Not on the shoulder of Bella's modest, yet fashionable dress. Right on the alabaster skin, just three inches in width, exposed where these two clothing items stretch to meet one another. Josephine's warm, human finger brushes feather light across the open space, contacting with Bella's cold, hard flesh. There is a spark of recognition, and Bella can hear the girl's rapid heartbeat, smell the adrenaline coursing through her veins. The three of them stand there, a frozen tableau, waiting for some indication of the appropriate response.

Realizing that Bella's emotional equilibrium has been radically assaulted, Carlisle takes the lead. He nods respectfully to Josephine, folds Bella under his protective arm, and ushers her towards the exit.

"She…?" is all Bella can manage, but Carlisle understands and affirms her conjecture.

And Bella discovers what it is to sob without tears.

* * *

**A/N: Constructive criticism either via PM or Review would be warmly appreciated.**


	4. Chapter 4

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Bella**

**Europe, 1837-1852**

**Chapter 4**

Though Carlisle is confident that Josephine is no threat to them, he and Bella arrive at the decision that removing themselves from the vicinity would be wise. 'Isabella and Carlisle Cullen' are leaving England to take the Grand Tour. Bella wishes to see the places that Carlisle has called home. After about five or six years in any one place, they move on, transplanting themselves on various European coasts and countries, polite but reclusive. The world of the wealthy and socially advantaged is a small one, Bella discovers, full of the same 'set' of people, idle and gossiping, eager to meet one another in yet another elegant ballroom or exotic locale, yet just as eager to tear one another to pieces verbally. As a result, the Cullens rarely flaunt their true wealth and the Cullen name has to be used sparingly, exchanged for other respectable identities as they take up alternate personas. And, of course, they refuse nearly all invitations, send profuse thanks and generous consolation gifts, but remain resolutely elusive. Carlisle's eccentric commitment to spending his time amongst the 'riff raff' of the world does much of their work for them, keeping them from being sought out as aggressively as their wealth might have otherwise suggested. Similarly, their dietary restrictions serve to isolate them from the larger Vampire world. The Cullens do not seem to fit in anywhere but with one another.

It is clear to everyone who knows of them that Carlisle is primarily interested in helping the less fortunate, not in finding a wife, and his sister is just as odd as he. They visit their various homes and play out their different identities, and everywhere they go, Bella learns the languages of the people, reads their books, and engages in their cultures. Slowly, now, she is increasing her own tolerance for the direct smell of human blood, hoping that in time, she will be an effective assistant in Carlisle's hospital work.

In many ways, they are kindred spirits, and he truly becomes the brother that Bella had always wished to have. They talk and debate books and philosophies; he has had personal experience with many of the Renaissance artists whose work captured her imagination long ago. They talk endlessly of the life he had led - the wars he had seen and the people he had known, though they generally avoid discussing her own previous experiences or the manner in which they came to be acquainted. Bella studies Carlisle more devotedly than she would any written text - he is, though not living, a breathing source of knowledge for her. And though she apprentices herself to him in many ways, they remain distinct. Perhaps it is Bella's youth - he has, after all, been alive for several centuries. She can tell that he tries at times not to be merely amused by her emotional reaction to things, rapid conclusions, and hastily formed ideas. However, Bella can think so much more quickly as a vampire, see things so much more clearly that she grows frustrated with the bellicose decisions of the governments surrounding her, nations that seem determined to spill the very blood they seek to preserve. Carlisle simply chuckles, calls Bella 'hot-headed,' and warns her not to engage too closely with what he terms 'human concerns.'

"How can you dismiss this so easily?" she inquires one morning in Paris when the newspapers report growing hostilities between Britain and Russia. He raises an eyebrow and waits for Bella to continue. "How can you labor to save individual lives, but not care that countries fight ridiculous wars, sending generations to their death for pride of empire and acquisition of more land?"

"It is not that I find it easy, Bella, but what is the alternative? To run for office, write laws, and lead countries? How can we do that and protect our secret? I limit myself to making a difference in individual lives because it is the only way that I know, and it _does_ make a difference. Perhaps not in ways that you wish, but I believe that my actions, my determination to save lives, contributes to the goodness of the world, somehow redeems what I am. I do not grow tired. I continue to learn. I can hear things that humans cannot - an abnormal heart rhythm, for instance. I take these facts of my supernatural existence and use them to help people. What else would you have me do?"

Bella stares at him in silence because she has no answer to that. She only know that words like _waste_ and _fruitless_ would never occur to Carlisle, even as he watches a man he has stitched back together depart for another fight. She, on the other hand, seems quick to judge, hasty to dismiss human foibles as ridiculous, full of righteous indignation at the thought of all Carlisle's hard work coming to naught. Bella wonders if his saintly compassion is something she will acquire over the centuries, or if she is deficient in her essential makeup.

"Have you always been so _good_?" Bella asks him at one point. He quirks an eyebrow at her and waits for her to give her half-question, half-accusation more context. "You seem to have an unlimited supply of patience - for me, for your colleagues at the hospitals where you volunteer, for your students, for your patients, for...humanity. I simply wondered whether you had always been this way, or whether it develops over time."

He gives Bella's question careful consideration - another example of his sincerity and goodness. She sighs. "If you are asking whether I have always found it easy to forgive the weaknesses of others, then the answer is no. Few of my human memories remain at this point, but I can assure you, Bella, that I am, and always have been, far from perfect. But if you are really asking whether you can expect yourself to mature and change, then I have no answer for you. You have been surprisingly self-controlled for a young vampire, and you may find that the perspective of time gives you the distance you need to make allowances for the frailties of others, but vampire nature seems to strengthen and crystallize one's human self. You may find that it is hard to adapt to the changing attitudes and social conventions that society necessarily goes through. In many ways, Bella, you will be nineteen forever, despite the years that pass us by, and that has its benefits and costs. You are passionate and full of, well…life, for lack of a better word."

Bella is not sure whether to be grateful for his honesty or feel despair at the thought of such a static future. Still, though she does not exactly doubt Carlisle's assessment, she cannot help but think that change must be possible. Already she has learned so much, absorbed so much experience, surely she will find a way to transcend the limitations of the human aspects of herself that remain?

* * *

Eventually, Bella's desire to experience the richness of the Italian Renaissance for herself, rather than through Carlisle's perfect recall, persuades him to turn their sojourn south. Bella cannot understand his reticence – everything he has told her of Volterra has been positive. He speaks with fondness of his years among the cultured, sophisticated, and especially gifted Volturi. However, as the two approach the thick medieval walls of the city, Bella acknowledges to herself her own growing trepidation. Though she rarely allows herself to think of her life _before_, certain instincts remain, and she is suddenly struck with an overwhelming sense of fear: fear of the powerful, fear of the strong. The fear she feels only grows when she realizes that Carlisle has no words of comfort or encouragement to offer.

As they enter the chamber room of the Volturi's stronghold, it strikes Bella as empty. Of course it is macabre - it is, after all, where immortal beings of infinite beauty are made to feel small and vulnerable. Not to mention, it is the site of more murders than Bella's impressive mind can comprehend. A shiver threatens to climb her spine at that thought, but she suppresses it with an exertion of will. Carlisle walks before her, seemingly as calm and confident as if he were entering his own cold marble audience chamber. _Of course, Carlisle's would not need a drain in its center for the disposal of human corpses. _With that inappropriate thought, Bella must exert her will to suppress a nervous giggle.

The vampire Bella recognizes from Carlisle's descriptions to be Marcus is seated in what appears to be a tastefully subdued throne. He is immovable as only their kind can be. His eyes are closed and though Bella knows he cannot sleep, she has to repeat this fact to herself. Of course, most people breathe when they sleep, and Marcus cannot be bothered with such a thing, so Bella supposes he appears to be dead rather than sleeping. He neither opens his eyes nor inhales at their approach, so Bella presumes that Marcus is either ridiculously confident that he cannot be injured, here in the heart of his city, or he cares little for his life. Perhaps both.

Carlisle halts a respectful distance away, and Bella comes to stand beside him. When he speaks, Carlisle uses his softest doctor's voice: the one reserved for children who are ill or those who have a very short time to live. "Marcus," he breathes, and in it Bella can hear a tone fondness and a sense of nostalgia.

Bella thinks Marcus must hear the same things, because Carlisle's breath seems to reanimate him. He smiles, and then he opens his deep magenta eyes. The smile only lasts for a moment, before his face slips back into a state of inertia, but for that split second Bella feels that his esteem for Carlisle is genuine, and she decides that Marcus might be worth knowing.

Of course, Marcus is not really alone. Several obsequious vampires stand at the ready to obey his every whim, but they seem to Bella to be out of practice, as though Marcus cannot be bothered to have whims after nearly three thousand years of life. Certainly, a look of surprise passes across the face of the vampire on his right when he turns minutely in her direction and bids her complete a task for him. In a heartbeat, were one present with which to count time, she is gone from the room and Carlisle is speaking, explaining how they have recently been traveling the Continent as he introduces Bella to the cities he has called his home. His gallantry exaggerates their eagerness to visit this city in particular, but Bella chalks this fact up to Carlisle's good breeding - he seems to know when and how much flattery to employ.

Marcus may be listening, but his gaze is fixed at a point midway between Carlisle and Bella, causing Bella to speculate on what exactly Marcus perceives about her connection to Carlisle, the talent that Carlisle had previously explained to her that Marcus possesses. Regardless, Carlisle brings to a close the short narrative of their journeys. His hedging inquiry about the whereabouts of the absent Volturi leaders elicits no response, and Bella is nervous to perceive a mounting anxiety in Carlisle's posture.

Before the heavy door opens, Bella can hear the approach of a large number of vampires: large enough that they need not silence their footfalls. Carlisle and she turn as one as the female vampire whom Marcus had sent out enters the door first, followed by a man who seems to almost float over the ground. His hair is long and dark, and his skin, like Marcus's, seems paper thin and almost backlit. This can only be Aro. Indeed, if he did not match the painting among Carlisle's treasures, Bella would have been able to guess his rank simply from the large retinue of dark grey-clad vampires who follow in his wake. He seems intent on making up for Marcus's silence in the vehemence with which he greets Carlisle.

Aro finally interrupts himself and his gush of gladness over their unexpected visit with the following exclamation: "But my dear friend, you must introduce me to this enchanting creature you have brought along with you!"

Carlisle makes an almost formal bow, angling himself to include Bella in the conversation. "Aro, this is Isabella."

"Isabella…a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. You are welcome in my city," for a flicker of time, Bella glances to Marcus to see if Aro's possessive pronoun offends him, but he does not seem to be listening, seems to have returned to his suspended animation. "Fret not, fair Isabella, my dear Marcus will not worry over my claiming ownership over Volterra - he is beyond the concerns of such things." As he says this, Aro gently pats Marcus's arm as humans might pat a stray but friendly dog, and Bella notes that his hand slides down, briefly, making contact with Marcus's palm. Carlisle had warned her of this: that with skin to skin contact, Aro can read one's thoughts. Bella's anxieties are reawakened as Aro's smile hardens minutely. "May I assume, based upon the strikingly beautiful tone of your eyes, Isabella, that you have come to ascribe to Carlisle's idiosyncratic view of the world?" His words communicate his utmost respect for her maker, and yet simultaneously drip condescension: a remarkable feat.

"I abstain from human blood." Bella sidesteps the label he has attached to their pacifist beliefs; no, she does one better: she infuses her answer with all the contempt she can muster for his own clichéd lifestyle. Perhaps this is too rash, a coolness seems to settle over the vampires that Bella only now recognizes form not simply a retinue, but a guard.

Aro laughs. "Wonderful!" he exclaims. "She will best you, Carlisle: rather than simply resist our persuasion, dear Isabella will seek to convert us all to your…unique way of life." Several vampires present condescend to chuckle at the idea, but Bella continues staring directly at Aro.

Trust Carlisle to swoop in and smooth things over. He too chuckles and smiles at Bella. "Yes, well, I wish you luck," and then deftly shifts the focus of conversation, "But where is Caius? Is he not in Volterra at present?" Bella's intuition sparks – Carlisle is pleased by Caius's absence.

"Sadly, no, and I am certain he will regret missing you, unless you plan to stay for an extended visit?" At Carlisle's gentle negative, Aro continues. "I am afraid that there are rumors of trouble again in the southern part of North America. Caius and a portion of the guard have gone to investigate and punish any transgressors."

"Newborns?" Carlisle's face is now clearly strained. "Like Benito's?" Anything to trouble Carlisle so deeply threatens the fabric of Bella's world, and so she finds herself frozen, waiting for Aro's verdict.

"Perhaps. The covens in the South were taught a firm lesson, but there does seem to be a resurgence of violence and skirmishing among them. So long as the young ones are contained and undue attention is avoided, we will not interfere. Caius's presence in the area is sure to communicate how strongly we regard any infractions of our laws."

"Indeed, Aro, that troubles me greatly," Carlisle speaks carefully.

"Be not alarmed, my friend, Caius and his guard are more than capable of handling the situation." It seems to Bella that a subtle warning is being communicated, as though to question the circumstances further is to question the legitimacy or security of the Volturi regime.

"Of course, Aro; please extend my greetings to Caius when he returns," Carlisle responds promptly and once again shifts the conversation deftly, "Isabella is a lover of art, so we plan to continue on to Florence and Rome. She is eager to study the work of the masters." Carlisle bestows on Bella a smile of pride and fondness, while Aro's delight cannot be overestimated. He quickly persuades them to follow him up a winding staircase and into his private collections. Truly, Bella does not think any further travel should be necessary: Aro has amassed a stunning collection that would rival that of the Vatican or the Louvre. However, even with the lost works of the Italian Renaissance to hold her attention and inspire her awe, Bella feels anxious to be on their way.

Carlisle must feel the same, or perhaps he can read the tension in Bella's posture, as he makes polite excuses to Aro and explains that their diet requires more frequent meals in order to maintain their strength. Bella catches a glimpse of herself in a passing mirror and realizes that her eyes have darkened to a deep amber, seemingly attesting to Carlisle's assertion.

Aro once again overwhelms them with exclamations of his friendship and his hopes that they will return to Volterra quite soon. In a calculated action that, Bella thinks, is supposed to look spontaneous, Aro reaches out and grips Carlisle's hand with both of his own, continuing to speak his well wishes. Aro must be quite practiced at reading others' thoughts surreptitiously, as Bella watches carefully for any indication that he is using the physical contact to pry into Carlisle's thoughts. There is none. Of course, there is also no chance that any of the vampires present are unaware of the silent communication going on between the two who are gripping hands, smiling, and bidding one another farewell. Bella's fear ratchets up a notch, though she is not sure whether it is simply at the idea of someone invading her mind or simply the unlimited power seemingly possessed by these few men, but she and Carlisle leave the city unmolested and race into the nearby forest equally glad to leave Volterra behind them.

**A/N: Constructive criticism via Reviews or PM's would be warmly received. **


	5. Chapter 5

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

As per a relatively recent discussion on the_gazebo regarding AU's, I'm giving you a heads-up that in key areas, this story will intentionally deviate from canon. More in the A/N at the end.

**Bella**

**Italy, 1853**

**Chapter 5**

It's not often that one can sneak up on a vampire. Bella's hearing is so much better now, and her ability to concentrate while, simultaneously, monitoring her surroundings is quite extraordinary when compared to human limitations. So surprises are rare for her in these days. But surprised, and unpleasantly surprised at that, is exactly what she feels on that cloudy evening early in the year 1853.

She has been working closely with a talented young artist in Florence, trying to become more proficient in painting, rather than simply an appreciator of the arts. It has been a welcome challenge: both the technical mastery needed to work with oil paints and brushes, but also the mastery of her thirst required when in such frequent close quarters with a human. Angelo is gregarious and warm in a way that Bella is coming to realize seems native to Tuscany; holding him aloof is challenging as they become necessarily better acquainted in the roles of master and apprentice.

On the evening in question, she is alone, making small adjustments to a painting she had begun the previous day. The vivid spectrum of colors afforded to Bella's vampire-enhanced vision and consequent ability to discern nuances within her composition will certainly impress Angelo, but her own perfectionism is more difficult to satisfy. Angelo should arrive back from Rome in the morning – she wants so much to have completed this task. She stands, frowning at the painting of a field of violets not far from the Cullens' spacious villa, and then suddenly her sense of danger has Bella crouching with the wall at her back and her teeth bared. The demure housecoat and dress she is wearing is annoyingly restrictive as her brain immediately calculates the vulnerability of her present position. A sound like a nest of hornets is erupting from Bella's throat.

Arrayed in the doorway to her well lit (and defensively weak) art studio are two vampires, neither of whom Bella has ever seen before.

"I told you that we should have knocked," says the male vampire, who towers over the head of the childlike girl in front of him. He is enormous: he stands just outside the room but fills the doorway, completely blocking Bella's view of the hall. There could be a hundred more vampires waiting out in the foyer for all that she knows, this man so entirely owns the space he occupies.

The girl does not even acknowledge his comment, just fixes her cold gaze more determinedly on Bella. She is certainly that: a girl, and not a woman. Her cherubic face is the only thing about her revealed by the slate grey cloak she wears, but it is not a face one would dismiss, despite her obvious youth when she was bitten.

Bella's defensive posture remains unchanged, though she ceases making the instinctive hiss of warning. Her eyes may be gold instead of the magenta facing her across the room, but Bella has no intention of meekly surrendering to whatever hostile intention compels them to appear in her home so rudely unannounced.

"Be quiet, Felix," the girl says in a subdued tone that assumes compliance. The chain of command is clear in these three words: despite their difference in size or age, this slip of a girl is in charge. By the look on her face as she stares Bella down, it is also clear that Isabella Cullen is no threat to her. In fact, without saying a word to anyone, she turns about-face and walks away. Felix is quick enough so as not to hinder the girl's going.

Bella breathes in deeply, absorbing their distinct scents, and then makes her decision. Perhaps it is not the wisest choice, but she follows them as quickly as she can move, and must pull up short when she finds them standing in the wide, tiled foyer as though she were the guest and not they the interlopers.

Again the girl scrutinizes her, and for a moment Bella wishes that she had stayed in the studio rather than following them out. But that sounds too much like Bella Swan and not enough like Bella Cullen, so she straightens her posture and paints a look of righteous indignation across her face before she addresses them: "You are…?"

Bella leaves the question hanging there, communicating in her tone of condescension and quirked eyebrow how insignificant they appear to her. Of course, that is a lie, and a rather unconvincing one at that.

"We are here for Carlisle," the girl states, cold and emotionless. She could mean that they are here for Carlisle's assistance – it is not uncommon for human messengers to arrive at all hours of the night, begging the assistance of the _Guaritore_, or Healer. She could also mean that they are here to assist Carlisle in some way – perhaps he has requested their presence without Bella's knowledge. But as these words leave the girl's mouth, Bella realizes that she recognizes the dark grey wool cloak they are both wearing from her brief visit to Volterra, and she can only interpret the girl's statement as a judgment, a threat, maybe even a death sentence.

Perhaps because Bella is still relatively new to this un-life, or perhaps because she is essentially flawed in her makeup and will be eternally impulsive and quick tempered, her vision seeps red and, alone and completely unequipped, she tries to determine the best point to attack. Her hostile intent is clear to the strangers, and Bella grows impossibly angrier when a smug smile creeps across the face of Felix. The as-yet-unnamed girl simply shrugs her shoulders and turns to face Bella fully. A look of anticipation followed by a perplexed grimace of concentration sweeps over her features, making her resemble even more a willful child.

Bella has never seen vampires fight – the majority of her encounters with other vampires have been limited to her one visit to Volterra – but instinctively, she experiences her strength and the sharpness of her teeth as weapons, rather than simply tools for her sustenance. With her vision clouded red and every sense honed on the enemies only yards from her, she determines to eliminate the girl first, despite the larger one's bulk and presumed strength. It is the girl who embodies the threat to Carlisle, and therefore, Bella's life.

Just as she makes these strategic calculations, the room is filled with a piercing scream. If Bella's blood were still pumping, she is certain it would have stilled at the combination of terror and suffering communicated in that wail. Both Felix and Bella freeze, staring at one another in shock, while the girl writhes in agony at his feet. Though Bella's first thought is that Felix has, miraculously, turned against his companion, Bella quickly discards that conjecture as she absorbs his apparent confusion and what she can only assume to be fear. He is gaping at her as if she is responsible, though Bella cannot comprehend how that may be. But however it has come about, her enemies are otherwise engaged, and as fast as she can move, she is through the rear exit of the villa and sprinting through the sparsely wooded countryside and towards the Florentine hospital where Carlisle is sure to be found.

As Bella's legs pump furiously, propelling her through familiar surroundings now cloaked in darkness, she concentrates on one thought: Get to Carlisle. A multitude of panic-filled images attempt to muscle their way into her mind. _The whirl of the room as her body moves without her conscious intent – instinctively protecting her back_. Get to Carlisle. _The slow spreading smirk on Felix's face as Bella's muscles tense, preparing for a fight she only now realizes that she could not possibly win_. No. Get to Carlisle. _The haunted look of agony on that girl's face –- _Stop. Get. To. Carlisle.

At last, she runs in the dark through the repetitive arches that form the cloister-like atmosphere of the _Ospedale degli Innocenti_, where Carlisle volunteers in caring for the orphaned children of Florence. The pleasing fifteenth century architecture does little to calm her now, however, as she ranges outward with her heightened sense of hearing, sight, and smell, hoping to catch Carlisle alone, and quickly. Through a door slightly ajar, from whence a small sliver of candlelight emerges, Bella catches the notes of Carlisle's melodious voice, but she stands, frozen outside. Bella has succeeded in getting to Carlisle, but somehow finds herself incapacitated with fear.

_What if she was wrong to interpret their intentions as evil? What if they were Carlisle's guests, and she shocks him with her actions? What if she is somehow responsible for that girl's torture? What if she offends Carlisle so thoroughly that he casts Bella off?_

This last thought leaves her broken, clutching her legs with the cool plaster against her back, heaving breaths into lungs that seem to feel again the constriction of smoke inhalation, eyes closing to desperately block out the vision of a grimy patch of ceiling in a room full of her regrets.

Carlisle rescues her from herself once again, gently opening the door and latching it behind him. Without a word, without a question, he pulls Bella into his arms, holds her tight in his compassionate embrace. She grips the dark lapels of his wool coat and wishes, not for the first time, that she has the luxury of tears to somehow expel this darkness inside her.

"Hush…" he finally whispers. "Hush, Bella. I am here." He rocks them gently in the echoing silence of the dark stone square.

"I've done something…and I don't even know how…it's too horrible." The dry sobs interrupt her explanation.

"Hush…we will deal with it together…it is unfortunate, but, Bella, no one is perfect…were there…witnesses? Where did you leave the body?" His tone is subtly detached, regretful but not judgmental.

"What? No – there's no body – oh. You think I killed someone. No," Bella takes a deep inhalation: better to get this over with, "Two vampires. At the villa. She said 'We've come for Carlisle.' I assumed the worst – was going to fight them. But then the girl collapsed, screaming. I ran. Carlisle, I'm so sorry!"

He brushes away the apology, clearly communicating in the gesture that he is not angry. Her worst fears are not to be realized; this realization fortifies Bella to face whatever is to come. "This girl," he says, "what did she look like?" She can read clearly the trepidation on his face.

"Young. A child almost. Beautiful, of course. Bright red eyes. Blonde—"

Carlisle interrupts Bella's words with a menacing hiss. He takes her hand in his, without any explanation, and they begin to run.

**A/N: So…clearly the changes I've made to canon have resulted in a slightly different "talent" for Bella. This will be fleshed out more in the following chapters. I'm hoping you will take this journey with me, will be as interested as I am in the possible consequences of moving some key players around on the chess board.**

**Want to chat about it? Bookishqua/Booksgalore has been so awesome as to start a thread for this story over at Twilighted. The link is on my profile.**

**As ever, any feedback you'd be willing to share with me via Review or PM would be warmly appreciated.**


	6. Chapter 6

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Bella**

**Italy, 1853**

**Chapter 6**

Carlisle's evident fear as he recognizes Bella's description of the girl only exacerbates the growing terror she feels building inside of her. Fear and confusion are warring for control, but until they can resolve their conflict, she places herself once again in Carlisle's keeping and mutely follows him. The rich darkness of the Tuscan night enables their hasty escape from the confines of the city, where every corner seems to promise violence and ambush. The speed with which Carlisle is pushing them to travel communicates better than any words he could speak the danger in which they unexpectedly find themselves.

After almost an hour of steady running, Bella admits to herself that curiosity is gaining over fear, and she simply asks, "Where are we going?"

Carlisle's answer of "Volterra" has her skidding to a halt in the dusty road lit only by moonlight.

"What?! Why?!" It is hard to form her gut rejection of this plan into a coherent argument. She only knows that after the antagonistic pair showed up at their home, she has unconsciously labeled the Volturi as "enemies." Though she does not think of it now, Bella instinctively knows that her life _before _has taught her that you never walk towards your enemies, particularly when you are so outnumbered, as these two most obviously are.

"Bella – think! If the Volturi want me, for any reason, they will find me. There is nowhere I can run from them – they have means of tracking me over the entire globe. And even if you were wrong – if they came only to talk or relay a message, then the…conflict…that erupted at our home will most decidedly change that. Something happened there – something unexpected, for certain – but something that will only pique their interest. I am sorry to tell you, but you must understand the full weight of the situation: it is no longer only me that the Volturi will want. Jane is their greatest weapon. If you have—" Bella tries to interrupt him to explain once more, but he keeps speaking, anticipating her objection—"yes, I understand that it was nothing you consciously did, but the reality is that a very powerful vampire tried to attack you, only to find herself immobilized. Aro will not rest until he understands why that happened. It will be far better for us if we arrive in Volterra under our own volition, rather than as prisoners of Felix and Jane. Do you understand? They are, I am sure, already tracking us, following our scent. We must move faster." With this explanation that leaves Bella more frightened than reassured, Carlisle takes her hand and again begins to run.

The late hour keeps the road almost entirely deserted. At just after midnight, they hear the rumblings of the coach heading to Florence from Rome. The horses make so much noise, it is no difficulty to steer off the road and pause in a small, overgrown orchard until the coach passes. Bella counts four human heartbeats as the coach drives by.

They regain the road and are ascending a small hill just a few minutes later when, through the quiet night, the horrific sound of the coach overturning and horses screaming echoes through the valley below them. Both Carlisle and Bella freeze, torn between the instinct to help and the necessity to flee their pursuers. But this is Carlisle Cullen, and despite the coward she may have once been, she chooses to be Bella Cullen, and so there is no real decision to make. Without words spoken, they are racing back towards Florence, towards the cries of the injured, and possibly, towards their own demise.

Clouds have covered the moon, bathing the valley in darkness, but their heightened senses enable them to see clearly the nightmare before them. One horse is dead, crushed beneath the overturned coach. The other is clearly injured, shaking the night with a high pitched cry of pain. The coachman is also dead, his body lies at an unnatural angle in a shallow ditch running alongside the road; only his legs and boots visible in the tall brown grass. The smell of blood – both equine and human – is overwhelming. Were it not for the training Bella has endured so as to be a better assistant to Carlisle, she knows this scene would resonate more as a banquet than a battlefield.

And then her gaze is arrested by the figure of a tall, well-built man dressed in a deep grey cloak climbing out of the wrecked coach. He carries two bodies, one beneath each arm. Bella might be tempted to hope that he has extricated his fellow passengers with the intention of giving them aide, except for two obvious facts: one, he carries them under his arms as one would luggage, and two, the breeze carries the telltale scent of vampire.

Instinctively, both Bella and Carlisle crouch and hiss. Felix turns towards them, dropping the humans, who are apparently still alive, as their cries at the rough treatment are difficult to ignore. Bella can still hear the fragile heartbeat of one more human from inside the overturned coach, though he or she makes no cry for assistance.

Even as these thoughts process through her mind, the heartbeat from within the coach expires. Bella pushes the ache she feels at the loss of human life roughly aside as Jane makes her ghostly appearance at the door to the coach. Of course. The destruction before them is no accident – it is the result of the two vampires' thirst and, perhaps, anger at the Cullens' ability to elude them. Did they know that Bella and Carlisle would return to give help to the injured, or was it simply a fortuitous coincidence on their part?

Regardless, the murderers have struck upon the most certain method to detain the Cullens, these 'pacifists' as the Volturi guard see them. Jane's smile is one of satisfaction and anticipation. Bella wants to retch at the thought of just how satisfied Jane is after feeding on the passenger in the coach. One of Felix's would-be victims is moaning at his feet, while the other simply lies limp.

"Carlisle. How convenient," Jane's voice is merely conversational, as though nothing untoward has happened this night. "We saved the horses for you – I believe they are more amenable to your palette?" Her tone shifts from hospitable to hostile.

"Jane," Carlisle's voice is that of a father, welcoming a prodigal child home. My heart aches at the compassion that flows from him. How can he offer her compassion? Even as she stands amidst the ruin her selfishness and depravity have wrought? "Jane. Enough. You have what you came for – there is no need for these to die," his hand sweeps out to encompass the men at Felix's feet.

Bella's eyes follow the movement of Carlisle's hand and fall with despair on the forms of the two injured men. And suddenly, her vision goes red, as even in the inky darkness, she recognizes Angelo's profile. He was to take the evening coach from Rome and arrive in Florence in the morning. Was it just a few hours ago that she labored over a painting that she hoped would win his approbation? And in that instant of recognition, of understanding that this is no nameless human awaiting a horrid fate at Felix's feet but a friend and mentor to whom she owes so much, Bella is running, sprinting towards Felix and Jane and Angelo and everything that has paralyzed her with fear and shame. Carlisle is only a split second behind her, and though he cannot read her specific intention, she knows he will not let her face any danger alone.

Jane takes a defensive posture, while Felix sprints forward, angling himself to intercept Bella's approach. "Get Angelo!" she cries to Carlisle, then leaps towards Felix, trusting instinct to keep her alive long enough to afford Carlisle an escape. But Felix is strong and fast, and Bella finds herself suddenly pinned to the ground with Felix's sharp teeth at her throat. He has her head twisted so that she is forced to watch Jane's slow approach, and Bella refuses to close her eyes against the raw gloating visible in Jane's magenta eyes. It is Bella she stalks, not Carlisle who, Bella hopes, is quickly escaping with Angelo and the other human who lay beside him.

Jane's voice is quiet, triumphant, "Isabella. What a mess you've made. Carlisle will certainly be accompanying us to Volterra, but it seems you may be a liability we cannot afford—"

"But, Jane—" Felix interrupts her, but with an indrawn hiss of pain, he is silent.

Jane's gaze returns to fix upon Bella as she declares, "I shall very much enjoy seeing you suffer before I let Felix end you." An overwhelming tide of hatred fills Bella when she looks up at Jane. It is not enough that she has won, that she can kill Bella any time she likes. Jane has to play with her as a cat does a mouse. The red tinges on the outside of Bella's vision pulse with the loathing that she feels for the girl – this soulless creature who clearly enjoys inflicting pain on others.

In the next moment, several things happen simultaneously. Carlisle, who has been out of Bella's field of vision since Felix has pinned her to the rough ground, is suddenly standing beside Jane. Felix reacts to Carlisle's nearness just enough that Bella is able to tear into his shoulder with her teeth, eliciting a roar of pain from Felix. And then three vampires stop dead, because Jane is once again writhing on the ground in agony, screeching in pain and fear. And this time, Bella hopes it is her fault, hopes that she is somehow responsible for knocking that little bitch off her feet. Carlisle swings Bella up as Felix lunges to Jane's side, and the two 'pacifists' take a defensive position with the coach at their backs, standing between the two prostrate humans and the two angry vampires.

Jane's fit of pain does not last long enough. All too soon she is on her feet, and the two grey-clad strangers stand just yards from the Cullens, sizing them up warily.

"Do not be foolish, Jane," it is Carlisle who breaks the silence. "You have seen what Bella can do. Surely you recognize that Aro will wish to question her, will, in fact, punish you severely if you come back to Volterra without her." Jane seems unable to restrain an angry hiss at his words, but he continues. "We are immune to your powers, which puts you at a distinct disadvantage, but we were heading to Volterra before you caused this spectacle. We will accompany you thither if you will allow these two survivors to live. Neither are conscious, nor have they been for some time." At this, Bella sneaks a glance behind her and finds that Carlisle is right – both men are unconscious, and Carlisle has succeeded in dressing their most obvious wounds, lessening the pull of their blood significantly. He continues his persuasive negotiation, "There is nothing to point to vampire involvement, just a simple coach overturning due to driver error. You and Felix have sated your thirst. Let us be on our way. We do not want to keep the Volturi waiting."

Felix is watching Jane in his peripheral vision, though he keeps his face pointed towards the Cullens in case they make any sudden movements. All eyes watch Jane as she tallies up Carlisle's arguments, all the while staring daggers at Bella. It is obvious that Jane finds it difficult to accept even this small of a compromise; Bella wants to scream at her '_You are getting what you want!' _But Bella can see just from her facial expression that what Jane wants most she cannot have: Bella's painful death, so she remains silent and hopes that Carlisle's persuasive bluffing will do the trick.

Unexpectedly, it is Carlisle on the ground, writhing in agony. He does not cry out, but his face contorts with pain, and Bella is livid. But just as she is about to fling herself on both of the Volturi guards, without any thought to the consequences, Carlisle has righted himself and stands beside her. Jane stares at him, appraisingly, before she says in a pacified tone, "_WE_ are not immune. It seems only she is. Do not forget it." Then she turns and walks away from the carnage and the softly neighing horse and the wreckage of the coach. She does not even check to make sure that the Cullens are following, though Felix only moves when they do. Just before she steps around the coach, Bella catches the slightest movement in Angelo: the flutter of eyelashes on his noble face. She prays to whomever may be listening that he will heal, that help will find him, that he will survive the tragedy of knowing her. Then Bella turns towards Volterra and prays for herself and Carlisle as well.

**A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. If you would like to visit or share your thoughts, the link to thread on the Twilighted Forum is on my profile. Reviews would be lovely, particularly if you have any constructive criticism or feedback.**


	7. Chapter 7

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

Sincere thanks go to Booksgalore/Bookishqua for rec'ing this story in her latest chapter of "Cullenary Coupling." She's started a thread for this story on the Twilighted Forums; the link is on my profile. Thanks go also to my dear Mr. Jones, who reads and rereads my many drafts.

**Bella**

**1853, Italy**

**Chapter 7**

This time, when Bella faces death, she is not surprised by the numbness that settles over her. Her first death may have been welcomed in a drug-induced stupor, but this one she will face with clear eyes and mute determination. Where once the absence of fear was startling, now she recognizes the emotional vacuum that precedes real danger. The dark grey cloaks of the guards billow out before her, echoing her memory of the smoke filled room she loathed so much. Even with the association so present, in the stillness of her mind Bella encounters no fear, no trepidation. She feels empty, but willing to face whatever lies before her in the audience chamber of the Volturi, be it accusation, condemnation, or merely curiosity; she cannot even summon the will to pray for a reprieve, though it is evident from his posture and expression that Carlisle is busy supplicating the higher powers on behalf of both of them.

Bella does, however, feel a grim satisfaction at the look of surprise that ghosts across Aro's face as they follow Jane and Felix into the room, which is, of course, crowded with vampires seeking to serve and ingratiate themselves to the Volturi. Her numbness falters a bit as she interprets his surprise to mean that Aro did not expect Carlisle and Bella to reach Volterra alive. Still, she has enough hard-won knowledge of the realities of power in the world to know better than to grovel or plead for clemency. She refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing her beg; Bella learned the hard way how ineffectual begging can be.

Carlisle, God bless him, enters the room not as a prisoner but as a welcome guest would. Bella, who knows him so well, cannot even detect a hint of trepidation. It is as though his dearest wish is being fulfilled in returning to Volterra and his good friends, the Volturi. A shiver of insecurity ripples through Bella's mind as she absorbs just how well Carlisle can conceal his true feelings.

The haunting thought is interrupted by Aro's vociferous greeting, "Carlisle and the beautiful Isabella, what a pleasant surprise! To have the joy of a second visit so soon, I would not have dared to hope for such a thing." Aro floats forward, his crimson eyes intent upon the Cullens' gold ones.

"Indeed, Aro, I am pleased as ever to have the opportunity to consult with you. A matter has arisen unexpectedly for which I am in great need of your wisdom," Carlisle's warm voice wraps their presence in Volterra with dignity and grace to a degree that tempts Bella to roll her eyes. She keeps them under strict control, but she does find them drawn to the figure just to the left of Aro, a vampire of equal antiquity, whom she had not previously had the opportunity to observe. His hauteur proclaims his caste: this is obviously Caius. Bella's observation of Caius is distracted, however, when Aro grandly raises his hand towards Jane, beckoning her to approach him. From the gesture, one might expect a courtly obeisance, but Jane seems reluctant to perform the rite they all know Aro expects: eventually she bows her head and mutely places her delicate hand in his.

If Bella were going to tremble with fear, this would be the moment. Instead, she boldly returns Aro's fixed gaze, not even breaking it to enjoy Jane's moment of humiliation. _Let him look_, Bella thinks. The silence is shattered by Aro's laughter.

"What is it? What has happened?" Caius asks, and it is obvious he resents having to articulate the question.

"Isabella," Aro draws out the pronunciation, imbuing the word with fascination and a covetousness that makes Bella's skin crawl. This name is all too familiar. She wants no part of it. She abjures all connection to the woman who inflames such lust in any man's eye. That is all part of _before_, and Bella will not let it infect this life of redemption.

"No," she vows, aloud and with a conviction that commands the attention of every eye in the room. "No," she repeats, louder, and feels no need to explain herself, speaking only to Aro and looking him in the eye so that he knows how absolute is this refusal.

"Aro." The word is a warning, not a question, as it whispers from Caius's lips. Bella feels pity for him just for a moment: having to live in constant companionship with a mind reader must be insufferable.

"Our dear Isabella, it seems, has an unforeseen talent," there is no covetousness to be repelled in Caius's crimson gaze, as he listens to Aro's proclamation, just pure suspicion. "It appears that your decision to send Jane and Felix to fetch our dear friend Carlisle has yielded an unexpected boon," Bella wonders whether that is the slightest hint of irritation that has slipped into Aro's voice as he reveals that it was Caius's will and not his own which sent Jane and Felix down to Florence.

Caius's voice is steel. "What talent?" When Aro remains mute, Caius's vocal lash falls upon his minion. "Jane?" he barks out, and Bella does have to smile just a bit at the instinctive cringe that she catches from Jane out of her peripheral vision.

"She is…impervious. Immune to pain," Jane's voice is hesitant, begrudgingly admitting failure.

"Jane," Aro makes a gentle _tsk-ing_ sound that is half reproof and half amusement. Finally, he shifts his calculating gaze to Caius and reveals what Jane has kept silent, "Apparently, Isabella has the ability to make Jane feel the pain she would inflict upon others."

"Show me," Caius bites out the command, looking at Jane and not Bella, who flinches instinctively at his ability to knowingly force anyone to endure such pain, even Jane. A precious looking man-child, either Jane's brother or mate, now stands beside her, and Bella wonders whether he contemplates countermanding Caius's order. Jane looks to Aro, obviously hoping for a reprieve, but none is forthcoming.

Jane swallows nervously, then concentrates somewhere around Bella's navel, refusing to make eye contact. A deeper silence falls in the marble chamber, as every vampire holds his or her breath and waits…in vain. Nothing happens. Confusion and a faint glimmer of relief pass briefly over Jane's face, but they are quickly replaced with a stoic blankness.

Again the silence is broken by Aro's laugh. He seems to find the most inappropriate moments amusing. Only one with unlimited power can indulge themselves to such an irritating extent. This time he seems to be amused by Caius's expression of hostile incredulity, which he has turned to take in, or perhaps Bella serves as a droll distraction from the constant cycle of judgment, patronage, and feasting that apparently can grow rather boring after a millennium or two.

"What an enigma you turn out to be, Isabella," so Bella is to be the entertainment after all. "Are you unwilling to indulge our curiosity? Just for a moment, my dear. I assure you, there are many present who would enjoy watching our sweet Jane get a taste of what she so happily dishes out," he pauses as though he expects Bella to laugh at his joke, expects her to enjoy showing off this 'talent' of inflicting pain upon Jane. "No? Not even if I say 'please'?" Coldness creeps into his voice there at the end, underscoring just how rarely the word _please_ is spoken by Aro.

"If I may, Aro?" Carlisle breaks in and waits until Aro nods silently, "I do not believe Isabella is in control of her…'talent', as you call it," with these words, Carlisle carefully approaches Aro, palm proffered humbly before him. Aro receives it with a raised brow, but seems fascinated by what Carlisle's thoughts reveal. Carlisle continues speaking, directing his words to Caius, even as his mind is open to Aro through their clasped hands, "Jane and Felix surprised Isabella in our villa. She instinctively responded defensively. Jane was…struck down, unexpectedly. Isabella actually thought it was Felix's doing, and she took that moment to escape and find me," at Carlisle's words, Felix shifts uncomfortably, but ignores the room's scrutiny with determination. "We immediately chose to set out for Volterra," Carlisle's narrative is concise, but retains the essence of events, "but paused in our journey to aide an overturned carriage. Isabella recognized one of the humans, whom she sought to defend against Jane and Felix, and once again Jane was…incapacitated. After a brief…discussion, we agreed to accompany the two messengers back to Volterra so that we might seek your assistance in determining the nature of Isabella's 'gift'."

Aro's smile is broad, and Bella hopes sincere, as he grips Carlisle's shoulder and pronounces, "You have done well. We are eager to help—"

Caius is not so 'eager,' it seems, as he turns his stony stare on Bella and interrupts Aro's praise, "You attacked a vampire to protect a human? You infringed upon a vampire's prey for reasons of sentimental attachment?" His tone betrays no real curiosity, only contempt. "Your unnatural dietary habits lead you astray. Your loyalties are suspect," at this condemnation, Bella does shiver because she recognizes that it encompasses Carlisle as well, perhaps is even primarily directed at her maker.

"Yes, well, as insightful as that might be, Caius," Aro's tone is indulgent but clearly reasserts his control over the proceedings, "I believe I have an insatiable curiosity to know Miss Isabella Cullen's mind on the matter. What say you, my dear? Will you not share your inner most thoughts with me?" This final question is whispered almost seductively, and if Bella had any real choice in the matter, she would have bolted in the opposite direction. As it is, she clenches her jaw tightly and extends her hand, slipping it into Aro's vellum-soft clutches.

Nothing happens. Again. "Well?" Caius snaps.

Standing this close, Bella is momentarily fascinated by the variant shades of red swimming in Aro's eyes. She indulges in the distraction so as to avoid considering the numerous thoughts or memories she would rather die a final death than reveal to this power hungry man who wishes to hold her in thrall. Just acknowledging the fear has her vision borrowing red hues from his eyes, making the anger coat her throat with venom. Aro's expression has been one of intense listening, focused concentration, but at the last moment before their contact is broken, Bella watches him blink in consternation.

"Marcus," Aro turns towards the final member of this unholy triumvirate, whom Bella had not noticed was present until now, so still and silent did he sit on his throne. "Do you notice any change?" Marcus deigns to shake his head no then returns to whatever stupor serves to content him. "Fascinating."

Bella can practically anticipate the huff of irritation that Caius allows to escape and is inclined to agree on this point, though this is the only point Bella and Caius are likely to agree upon. Aro patently ignores Caius's temper and explains himself to Carlisle instead, "Marcus cannot read Isabella, you see. When he first met you last year, we assumed the bond was merely unrequited, that your attachment to her was unreciprocated, but now she appears to possess hidden depths. Jane's torture has no effect upon her, nor can I read her mind. Her defenses appear to be… impermeable." At Aro's assessment and admission, a small wave of movement laps over the room of listeners. Unease is clearly behind the unnatural fidgeting, but no one speaks unbidden.

Aro's voice holds more than simple curiosity, however, when he speaks again, saying, "I am intrigued, Isabella. Perhaps you cannot, as Carlisle says, control this considerable defense of yours, but that does not explain why Jane felt your power so intensely in Florence, but suffers no ill effects at present, despite the fact that she has been trying to harm you since I gave her leave to do so, as has her brother Alec," at this revelation, Aro once again presses his cool palm against Bella's own. She wants to protest against the intimacy of the action, but at that moment, fear crystallizes into hate.

In the heart of Volterra, no one acts aggressively without leave, so Bella must assume that either Aro or Caius has given some unseen signal. There is no shortage of hatred flowing through Bella's veins at this moment; certainly, there will be enough to encompass the Volturi and their entire guard, though if pressed, Bella would have to admit to a special hatred for Jane and her hideously angelic sibling. Carlisle had warned Bella of Alec and his debilitating talent as they fled Florence, and she can only send up a prayer of thanks to whoever is listening that the quirk of nature that protects her from their incursions into her mind holds strong under Alec's silent assault. But just as happened in their confrontation on the road to Rome, Jane, this time joined by Alec, trains her lethal gaze on Carlisle.

Held fast in Aro's grip, Bella watches, helpless, as Carlisle is frozen mute in a pose of abject horror. What mental sufferings these two imps torture him with, she cannot begin to imagine, but it takes no time at all for her vision to fill with the red sharpness that Carlisle has labeled as 'blood lust.' A growing nest of hornets rises in her throat as she contemplates the destruction in store for these twin evils, just as soon as she can free herself from the Volturi king's restraint. Unexpectedly, however, Bella is still standing beside a motionless Carlisle, when suddenly her foes are fallen. Aro. Alec. Jane. All are tossed backwards, the twins shrieking in pain and fear. Immediately, Carlisle, released from his mental torture, is positioned defensively at Bella's back, and they stand isolated in the audience chamber, which is now likely to become their place of execution. Caius is on his feet, roaring his rage, and, so quickly that even Bella's vampire senses have trouble logging the movement, she and Carlisle are surrounded by a wall of dark grey cloaks.

Hope revives a few tense moments later as the wall of guards noiselessly fold open and Aro approaches the Cullens, his dramatic clapping echoing in the grandness of the room's silence. Bella wants to growl in dismay that Aro can represent anything remotely positive to her in this moment, but she supposes that in comparison to Caius's determination to see them damned, she must prefer Aro's indulgent amusement. What she really prefers is to be miles away.

"Fantastic, Isabella. Truly, you exceed all expectation. In that last moment, I was flooded by my own thoughts. Remarkable, really, to have the opportunity to revisit some of them after all this time. Rather disconcerting, to be candid." He giggles a bit at this admission, and Bella is inclined to agree that anything concerning Aro might be accurately labeled 'disconcerting.' What he says next arrests her attention, however, "Apparently your anger transforms your talent, Isabella."

Despite his recent torture, Carlisle's scientific mind is intrigued. "Yes, that confirms what I too had hypothesized. Her ability to shield herself from others seems a latent trait, that when combined with her blood lust—"

"Becomes a weapon of great power," Aro finishes, and Bella simply closes her eyes. Here it is: she has once again been stripped of personhood for the gain of more powerful men. Will she be forced to spend an eternity bouncing hatred back at Aro's enemies? Will she be coerced into mirroring pain and despair and fear and everything she detests about this world, inevitably absorbing some of that less tangible darkness into herself? Every instinct revolts at the thought, but for once in her entire existence, Bella reigns in her impulsive reaction, and she calculates the way to best achieve her freedom.

"Then I must learn to control my temper," she says with a deceptively sincere tone of cheerfulness. "I wish to be a danger to no one," she humbly lowers her gaze to the ground and kneels at Aro's feet, honest enough with herself to recognize that she's now willing to beg if that is her only option, despite the firm resolution she felt upon entering this room. Keeping her head tipped downwards, Bella beseeches him with a look of sweetness and supplication.

Aro's pride and masculinity are equally gratified, and despite his disappointment that Isabella is not begging to enter his service but rather to escape it, he feels rather magnanimous now that she's prone at his feet, looking so vulnerable and meek. There is no doubt that this woman intrigues him, but he too can calculate so as to best achieve his goals with the least amount of fuss involved, so without consulting Caius or the statue-like Marcus, Aro reaches down gently and places Bella on her feet, inclining his head with a great deal of satisfaction at his own munificence.

Bella cannot help but reach for and hold tight to Carlisle's hand as the two hasten out the door before Caius can make his displeasure known.


	8. Chapter 8

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Bella**

**1853-1855**

**Chapter 8**

The soft snoring of the only other passenger in the coach occasionally breaks the brittle silence that is crystallizing between Carlisle and Bella. The last hundred miles has been spent, on Bella's part, counting the elderly priest's heartbeats and waiting for the man to succumb to the monotony of the journey and the late hour. She is pointedly ignoring Carlisle's stare, ignoring the fact that his patience is running out. Bella feels tempted to mutter something like "wonders will never cease," but that would require talking, so she settles for amusing herself with the thought instead. Now that the old man is finally sleeping and cannot marvel at her ability to read in the dark, Bella safely fishes out the tattered copy of Virgil's _Aeneid_ she had bought at a booth in Rome. Ignoring Carlisle's stare is surprisingly difficult, despite the literary distraction, but she is nothing if not stubborn.

Bella's silence has been goading him since they had first escaped Volterra relatively intact. Traveling as quickly as possible, usually in a north-easterly direction, they had stopped once to hunt, but mostly they had fled. Several times on the journey, Carlisle had attempted to broach the subject of their recent brush with death, but Bella steadfastly refused to respond. She does not want to talk about this. Her silence screams: _I will not_.

So the eruption, when it comes, is not wholly unexpected. "Enough!" Though the exclamation is whispered, it strikes Bella like a physical blow. They are seated in a dimly lit corner of an inn on the shore of Lake Geneva in Montreux, Switzerland. The nearest human is across the room, quietly sweeping the hearth and humming to herself, and this cozy spot is apparently to be the location for their emotional standoff. "Bella," Carlisle continues his whisper-yell as though she could not hear him perfectly well if he simply whispered, "I cannot continue the journey one step further until you talk to me."

"What is there to talk about?" Not that Bella expects feigned ignorance to be successful in dodging this conversation, but she does feel a perverse pleasure in provoking his ire further.

"What?!" See, there is something very amusing in making Carlisle Cullen sputter in indignation. "Bella, the Volturi, the most powerful family in our world, nearly had us executed. You managed to deflect…to redirect their strongest offensive weapons against them. And then, you—"

"Stop. I was there. What good will talking about it do? Can it undo any of it? Can it return us to Florence? Make us feel safe? Anonymous? No. Then it serves no purpose." The tenuous nature of her emotional control is glaringly obvious to both of them throughout this desperate denial.

"Bella," and now the word is a caress, whispered gently and without recrimination. "Bella, we will be safe," he leans closer, takes her hand stiffly into his, holding it tight in spite of her resistance. Carlisle makes assurances they both know he cannot fulfill, but for now they will both act convinced.

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In an almost instinctive impulse to validate their way of life, Carlisle and Bella determine to join the overworked crew of medical attendants toiling in the shadow of the Crimean War. Bella feels that this life of servitude, of gruesome surgeries and self-denial is, for her at least, an active negation of all that is represented by the city of Volterra. Each swallow of venom, each time she forces herself to work over an open wound without breathing is a physical reminder of redemption, of choice, of freedom. Her only wish is that the British crown and its allies would not seem so hell-bent on creating an infinite line of wounded to be attended. Though Bella no longer physically tires, there is a lethargy that settles into her sinews and muscles after endless hours of working among the spoiled bodies and bloody carnage that imperialism has wrought. Carlisle and Bella hunt in the forest surrounding Mount Crimea, each wild boar or red deer consumed in exchange for another few days among the war ravaged soldiers. It is not the work that exhausts her, or even the strain of being surrounded by so much temptation: it is the knowledge that the cause for which these boys sacrifice is so finite. Bella cannot help but wonder whether, in five years or fifty, it will matter to anyone whether this tiny peninsula is ruled by the British queen or the Russian Tsar.

For a short period in the winter of 1855, Carlisle and Bella have visitors: pacifist sympathizers. After Bella recovers from the initial shock of meeting other vampires who also abstain from human blood, she quickly develops a rapport with Carmen and Eleazar. Eleazar's recent 'defection' from the Volturi guard in preference of a more peaceable lifestyle concerns Carlisle, makes him wonder whether this is the source of Caius's hostility and suspicion. Bella finds the three original coven members, Tanya, Kate and Irina, a bit more disconcerting than the Spanish couple. The women's overt sensuality makes her uncomfortable, makes Bella want to crawl back inside herself and avoid notice. That they could arrive at their commitment to preserve human life via their own voracious sexuality raises questions in Bella for which she has no answers. She is happier exorcising that portion of her past and simply avoids these guests when she can, but even spending time with Eleazar and Carmen, who are so happily matched in love, fills Bella with a feeling of disquiet. She watches the way the others watch her, notices their expectant faces when she interacts with Carlisle, and Bella retreats to brood.

After the coven of vampires continue their journey eastwards into Russia and beyond, Bella's emotional equilibrium continues to appear affected. At first, Carlisle assumes it is simply the natural toll of spending so many of the cloud-covered days elbow deep in human blood, and so he increases the frequency of their hunting forays. But with eyes a light honey-gold, Bella continues to feel rather snappish, particularly with Carlisle, who is the only person around whom she can be herself. Her recent melancholic mood makes her prone to 'sulks' as Carlisle calls them (though rarely aloud), unwilling to take an interest in painting or music, though occasionally losing herself in a triple-decker novel. It is in this frame of mind that she stalks to the living quarters she shares with Carlisle and accosts him with the combative question, "Why did you change me?"

He stares at her for a moment, trying to assess whether there is any correct answer to this query. Resigning himself to the fact that none presents itself, he answers with the simplest statement he can think of: "Because you are you, Bella."

"What does that mean?!" She has arrived at this discussion mentally armed for a fight, though she cannot articulate precisely why that is. "If it had been one of the other girls, burnt beyond recognition—"

Carlisle grimaces at the perfectly clear memory of Bella's disfigured body being carried from the flames but understands that she is experiencing some sort of crisis and answers honestly, "I do not know. Probably not. I have witnessed many people die over my long life, Bella, and I have never felt as compelled as I did on that night to intercede."

_Yes, that is true_, Bella silently acknowledges. It was something with which she had to come to grips herself when she had first begun assisting Carlisle in his medical work. Despite their enhanced abilities, even Carlisle and Bella are limited in what they can achieve medically, and it had been excruciating the first time Bella had watched a patient slip into death. Painful because death was a rest she would never know, but more painful still because she knew her venom gave her the power to stop it from happening.

Bella turns from the prickly memory and refocuses on the issue at hand, "But why? Weren't you…bothered by what I was…_before_?" She can hardly force the words out of her mouth, so afraid is she of an affirmative answer.

Bella can see in his eyes that he is finally recognizing what this conversation is about. This is to be a purging. He sees it all too often among the soldiers: a wound that grows taut with infection, inflaming the surrounding tissue until it breaks open, spewing filth. Bella's wound is not physical, but it throbs painfully nonetheless.

Carlisle turns Bella to face him fully, looks directly into her eyes, and says the most beautiful word in the world: "No." For now, Bella will not think of how well Carlisle can lie, she will only lean her cheek against his shoulder and let him fill her with reassurance. And as if that _no_ were not gift enough, he elaborates, "Bella, I can never feel gratitude for anything that has wounded you as deeply as your past has done, but if you had not needed my assistance, had not been living as a…"

"Whore," she supplies. The word is bitter to the taste, but there is a restlessness in Bella tonight that refuses to shy away from anything, no matter how painful.

"As a woman of compromised virtue," there is no ladylike term for the snort of derision Bella makes at Carlisle's delicate euphemism, and even he rolls his eyes in acknowledgment, diminishing the seriousness of the atmosphere until he finishes with, "our paths may have never crossed, and, Bella, that truly would have been a tragedy."

Bella lets all the emotion she is feeling crowd into her gaze: gratitude for his compassion, regret for the path her life has taken, a longing for peace and redemption, and a fragile hope that someday that might be possible. Time elongates as Bella breathes in and out slowly, trying to find the courage to make a decision.

"Bella," Carlisle whispers, shaking his head. "We each of us, vampire or human, must make choices, must find a way to live. There is no use in mourning the choices we have already made, but good can come from understanding why they seemed best to us in the choosing." He gently places his hands upon her shoulders, wills her to hear the sincerity of his words, pours out to her in his gaze all his acceptance and love.

"But I feel so _broken_," she whispers, wishing there was a better word to communicate the depth of her emotion. But where words fall short, she thinks perhaps action can provide the needed emphasis. She slowly reaches up, tugging off the cream bonnet and rich brown periwig she wears styled in a modest bun and curls. She grips them before her and stares at the floor, feeling both vulnerable and brave to stand before Carlisle so shorn. Bella's hair had been so damaged by the fire, there now remains just a fine dusting of soft brown curls, certainly not a hairstyle calculated to avoid attention in this era. Bella feels an aching ambiguity in regards to her missing hair. On one hand, even after seventeen years as a vampire, she feels naked and exposed, somehow branded and bereft. But a conflicting feeling of relief fights against the nagging sense of loss, jauntily bids adieu to the rich brown hair that so often ensnared customers _before_. In this moment, Bella is not sure which feeling is stronger.

Carlisle cups her head in his hands, tips her face back gently until she raises her eyes to meet his. "Isabella Marie Cullen," the naming of her tethers Bella to this new life, to the here and now in a way that somehow cauterizes her wound, begins the healing process, "you may have been broken, you may have been tattered, torn, and flung aside like so much rubbish. But can't you see that you've been refined in fire, reborn in the ashes? You are whole now."

A ragged breath escapes her, and Bella does the only thing she knows to do in this moment: she gently presses her lips to his. If this is what he wants, she will find a way to be whole for him. The two stand, immutable in the flickering light, and Bella wonders if she is being judged and found wanting. But his gaze does not look judgmental – quite the opposite, in fact, as he stands looking at her with an expression of heartbreaking compassion. Carlisle does not kiss her back, just leans his forehead to hers, runs a tender hand over her exposed hair, and inhales the scent of her skin and breath.

"Bella…" and with that gentle exhalation, a weight lifts from her shoulders. He really does not want her, not like that, and not like them, not even like Aro with his look of lust and acquisitiveness. Carlisle simply loves her for herself, and Bella wonders if, sometime in the future, she just might learn to do the same.

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**A/N: Constructive criticism? Feedback? Questions? I'd love to hear them – PM me or leave a review. Give me a chance to thank you personally for reading this story!**

**Also, I'm excited to be working as a validator for the Eddie Awards. If you haven't had a chance to nominate your favorite stories, you should do so ASAP (link on my profile)!**


	9. Chapter 9

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Bella**

**1855-1914**

**Chapter 9**

The grimness of the Crimean War is quickly replaced with the horrors of the American Civil War. Carlisle and Bella follow in the wake of the fighting, trudging through gore and the terror that mankind can inflict on one another. The weight of so many unending days spent patching together soldiers doomed by poor leadership or insufficient gear bursts upon Bella in September of 1862. The field hospital groans with the influx of so many injured following the battle of Antietam, and Bella cannot move. She stands transfixed and shaking, unable to process what is happening around her. Distantly, she knows that there is a vortex of movement surrounding her: cries of pain, cries of fear, cries of despair. Abruptly, she drops what she is holding, has just enough self-control to walk at a brisk human pace, slips into the patchy woods flanking the tents, and then runs, away.

Carlisle tracks her by scent sometime in the grey fog before dawn of the following day, finds her huddled at the foot of a large tree. He had thought her absence strange, but grows even more concerned at her lack of response when he touches her. "Bella?" he calls her name repeatedly, and sighs in relief when she stirs even a little. "Bella, talk to me. What is wrong?"

Bottled emotion bursts from her, "I…I can't do it anymore, Carlisle. I can't watch them die. I can't stand it anymore. They're children! They shouldn't be shooting one another! I'm sorry. I just hate it too much…" Even this confession is hard-wrung from her, torn between the contempt she feels for her own weakness and the certainty she feels that, if she remains, the growing bitterness of her heart will rival the hardness of her skin.

"You don't have to, Bella. You don't have to," he repeats over and over, as he curls his body around hers and rocks her gently. He had thought her able to hold the despair at bay, but her breakdown convinces him that to do so would require her to fracture her very soul. This is not a transformation that Carlisle can tolerate, so despite the good that they can do, Carlisle insists that they leave the service of the Union and travel the wilderness for a while.

For years, they seem like wandering gypsies, or knights on a quest. What are they searching for, Bella wonders? What Holy Grail lures them onward? Ever the physician, Carlisle's prescription of wide-open skies and wild game to hunt does mitigate some of the ache tugging at Bella. There are moments of real joy, running so fast it feels how she imagines flying might, stopping not to catch her breath in exhaustion but at the wonder of the rugged beauties found in nature. The mountains and plains of America are so sparsely populated, Bella and Carlisle can occasionally indulge in the glories of a bitterly cold, crystal blue day, letting their skin throw more sparks than the ice or snow banks around them can rival.

Eventually they trade in their nomadic lifestyle for what Bella dubs their 'Agrarian' period. For almost twenty years, Carlisle and Bella avoid large population centers. Though there are difficulties associated with small town life, particularly the close scrutiny of a small community, Bella finds that the natural cycles of planting and harvesting are genuinely restorative. She would have never imagined this life for herself: living on a homestead in the state of Wisconsin; it feels a million glorious miles away from _before_. Carlisle serves the rural communities as a doctor, while the two of them take earth that has been abandoned or rejected and find a way to make it live. The overt symbolism is not lost on Bella, but she cannot deny that she feels more whole than before, so she pours both her hurt and her hope into the land, grateful that it flourishes as a result.

Regardless of where they settle for six or seven years at a time, some facts remain constant: Carlisle's impressive gallery of artwork, the roughly hewn crucifix from his father's church, and books. Books neatly stacked and catalogued (Carlisle's) and books cluttering flat surfaces or propping open doors (Bella's). The extension of the railway makes the delivery of a crate of new books a much more frequent occurrence – one that excites Carlisle almost as much as it does Bella.

While Bella recovers her equilibrium, scientific knowledge grows rapidly, singing a siren's song that Carlisle cannot long ignore. The development of Pasteur's germ theory of disease leads to the rapid development of vaccines for a host of ailments, and Bella can see the way it pains Carlisle to live so removed from it. He has sacrificed so much for her for so long, she is happy to suggest that they return to 'civilization' so that he can participate in the exciting new application of science and medicine. Bella's experiences broaden as their move to Cambridge, MA places her in a position to enroll in Harvard's "Annex" for women. She thrives with the challenge and discovers new strengths within herself of which she might never have conceived.

Though their un-aging faces prevent them from remaining in Cambridge as long as either Cullen would like, the knowledge gained through research is quickly put to good use. Carlisle is determined not to lose touch with the practical applications of his knowledge, and so they begin a decade long trek through westward through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Carlisle sets broken bones and inoculates the next generation from illnesses that would have once been deadly. Bella can see the great pleasure he finds in working with patients, and she wonders not for the first time whether she will ever feel as much purpose in her life as Carlisle seems to.

They are living in rural Illinois when fighting breaks out in what some are determined to call The Great War. Carlisle is grieved to find that the cynicism he had thought to vanquish in Bella is quick to resurface, particularly when the whole of Europe seems determined to jump in the fray. In the end, Bella's bitterness overwhelms her compassion, and they decide to separate for the first time since her rebirth. Carlisle cannot ignore the cries of the poorly doctored soldiers abroad, but Bella cannot find it in herself to witness once again the pointless, wasteful injuries inflicted by one man upon another. She is afraid this war, even viewed across an ocean, will return her to the bitterness she has spent the last fifty years trying to undo: thinking of humans as 'them' - separate and alien from herself.

In all his years, she believes Carlisle still holds them close, thinks of himself as a different branch of the family tree. Bella, on the other hand, is becoming so discouraged by the direction human culture seems hell bent on heading, she has privately begun wondering whether there is a point to abstaining from human blood, saving human life. Individual lives, people with histories she knows and families she recognizes – those are easy to value. But lumped together as a species, working collectively as countries, she wonders (usually when reading the newspaper) if she might not be happier holed up in some remote corner of the wilderness alone. She cannot share these doubts with Carlisle, certain as she is to see only compassion and what will amount to forgiveness in his eyes. Bella deals with her doubts by throwing herself even more determinedly into charitable service, as though by will alone she will pull herself back from the brink of disbelief.

In 1915 they resurrect the name of Cullen, moving into Chicago when Bella learns of Jane Addams's work with the Italian American immigrants at Hull House. Carlisle stays long enough to help establish their identities and Bella's role as a young woman of means, dedicated to serving the poor. Their farewell, as he prepares to board a train that will take him to New York and then a steamer to the ravaged trenches of France, is a quiet but heartfelt one.

"You are certain in your course?" he asks again, for the hundredth time.

Bella swallows reflexively, and nods her head once, mutely, throwing her arms around his neck. She realizes in this moment of spontaneous embrace how rare it is for them to touch, how rare it is for Bella to touch anyone. He squeezes Bella tightly against him, communicating so much in such a simple gesture: faith, regret, hope, concern. He pulls away minutely and looks deeply into her eyes, eyes that are the same liquid amber as his own. A part of Bella registers that there is nothing unique to their farewell: human or vampire, they are surrounded by other pairs of loved-ones bidding painful good-byes.

"Write to me often. Be honest, and tell me to return if you have need of me. And you know you can join me at any time, if you change your mind."

Bella smiles at Carlisle- a real smile that reassures him that she will be all right, but that she will miss his company, too. She inhales a long breath, full of his scent, thinking of how some moments seem to stand apart from the general flow of one's life, separate and distinct.

For seventy-nine years, they have shared a life, worked side by side, and now Bella finds that she is abruptly grown-up -- both as a woman and as a vampire, ready to see exactly how strong she is.

**A/N: Thank you to each of you who have taken the time to read and review. I am sincerely grateful. Next up, our 3rd person POV shifts to Edward!**


	10. Chapter 10

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Edward**

**Chicago, February 1918**

**Chapter 10**

"I will marry you, Edward." It is said so definitively, he congratulates himself when he meekly swallows the wine he is drinking, concentrating on preventing his lips from quirking up into a smile.

"Indeed?" _Really_, Edward applauds himself, _I am terribly mature_. He raises an eyebrow at the lovely face staring intently back at him, but continues to refuse the grin any purchase. Their voices are hushed, indecipherable over the inane chatter going on around them.

"Yes, I've decided. I don't know why you didn't suggest it before. It's by far the simplest way." Earnest. That is the emotion to best describe her tone. Or perhaps laughingly accusatory.

"Well," he replies in a very matter of fact manner, "if we are only trying to find the simplest way of dealing with things…" he allows his voice to trail off.

"You prefer the most complicated?" She has him there, and she knows it. Is he so transparent? It does seem that lately he seeks out the very most complicated manner of handling things.

"It has stood me in good stead so far," he points out. She grins impishly, but refuses to be sidetracked.

"But what do you think of my plan?" she asks, still fully confident that she has hit upon the solution.

"I am afraid that it is not customary for young ladies to propose to young men. I am a bit taken aback by your audacity," he whispers in a scandalized tone. All right. He is not as mature as he wants to believe - he cannot help indulging in just a bit of mockery.

She laughs. No, she chortles. Throws her head back and lets a full belly laugh escape. Unfortunately, that is all that is needed to bring their very unconventional conversation to the notice of the stolid adults, sitting just feet away. Heaven forefend a young lady should do more than simper.

"Margaret Anne Stewart," the reprimand comes instantly, "behave yourself!" Their faces are immediately composed into the calm façade expected by their respective parents, but as Edward dares to glance over at her, he can see the twinkle remaining, just barely obscured by his cousin's long lashes and pursed lips.

---

Sixteen. A man, to all intents and purposes. But not to them. It is obvious that they still see him as a little boy, refuse to acknowledge that Edward is grown.

Dressed in his formal black tuxedo, sitting across from yet another vapid socialite for yet another endless hour of inane conversation, he promises himself not to goad Meg and bring down his aunt's fearsome wrath upon her again. Down the extensively arrayed table, Edward's father catches his eye. _Obviously, it was you who instigated Meg's disgraceful show of emotion just now. Behave. Make your mother happy,_ his father seems to telegraph across the room. And Edward grimaces, because he is sixteen, after all, and playing the role of the 'good boy' feels like a hardship to his sixteen year old self. Edward nods his head discreetly, and his father seems to relax a bit, releasing the tension in his shoulders as he debonairly returns his attention to the well dressed ladies and gentlemen surrounding him at his end of the table. It is just a 'small dinner' - close family and, of course, the young woman who sits across from Edward, which brings the total to twelve.

She is beautiful, true, but so had been every other young woman paraded before Edward over the previous six months. And it seems to him a beauty that is impersonal, generic. Uninteresting.

Six months. Not so coincidentally, six months ago Edward had burst into his father's study and announced his determination to enlist in the fighting going on in Europe. Edward declared that he would go to Canada, fight on behalf of England, put down these aggressors who would swallow up civilization in their militant empire. Though his father's only response had been to tap his pipe against his desk thoughtfully, Edward had stood before him bravely. The young man would not retreat. He would show his father that he was determined, full grown, ready to assume his duties as a man.

Yet here Edward is now, at his mother's dinner party six months later, sitting at her right and across from the wealthy Miss Creeley?, whom he had escorted to the meal, wanting to snort his derision at his mother's plan to alter Edward's determination, and trying not to make eye contact with his little cousin to his right. Father had paid Edward the compliment of discussing his wishes rationally, hearing out his arguments in support of joining the fighting abroad. They had negotiated a compromise: Edward would not 'run off' (as his father put it) and 'perjure' himself in order to enlist immediately; rather, Edward would wait one more year, giving his mother time to reconcile herself with his choices, and, his father promised, a generous contribution to the war effort might smooth over any technicalities that Edward's birth date might raise. The patriarch wanted to respect his son's decisions, but implored Edward to give due consideration to his mother's feelings.

And thus began the parade of eligible young debutants. Edward should have known that Mother's time of 'reconciliation' would not be spent idly bemoaning her son's bellicose ways. In fact, he could not help but admire her determination, and think, albeit a bit ironically, that her strategic capabilities could have been put to better use in the war effort. She attacked on three fronts: love, faith, and hope. Their social calendar suddenly became inundated with events requiring Edward's presence, events that conveniently paired him off with many attractive young ladies, each seeming quite eager to fall in love with him. Additionally, Edward received frequent calls from the family's priest, Father Andrew, who skillfully brought the teachings of Christ to his aid in debating the young man's warrior intentions. And finally, most potently, his mother used hope (or rather, her hope and his guilt) to erode Edward's determination: hope that they would go as a family and tour their recently purchased property in California, hope that they would persuade her parents to finally emigrate from France, and especially, hope that the war would end soon. She prayed for it daily, hourly perhaps. But Edward was still determined.

His mother's foot nudges his own gently beneath the table, and Edward is brought back to the present. Miss Croffey? had been speaking to him from across the table, and it is clear that she is now waiting for a response.

"I am so sorry," Edward whisper, darting a quick smile in her direction, "I was distracted for a moment - the venison is quite delicious," he turns his most charming smile towards his mother, ignoring the very unlady-like snort that escapes from Meg, seated to his right. "I am afraid I missed what you were saying. Please, forgive me."

As Edward expects, Miss Crootey? is quick to forgive. She rattles on about the upcoming concert to be given in benefit of Ms. Addams's charitable ventures, a topic about which he cares little, but Edward abstains from further rudeness by concentrating on it, nonetheless.

While Miss Crilley? is distracted by the presentation of the final course, Edward gives his mother a quick, sardonic look that says, _Really? Her?_ In response to which, the corners of his mother's mouth inch upwards minutely. It is a look that says _Why not?_ and _A mother has to try_ and _I love you_ and _I am not giving up_ all at once. Edward smiles broadly in return, showing her that he is not offended, only amused. Meg coughs a laugh, and he watches a similar conversation pass between his mother and cousin.

Dinner passes just as all the others, well, with the exception of Meg's impromptu marriage proposal, and is conventionally followed by the ladies' withdrawal to the drawing room while the men drink a glass of port and get down to the real conversation, which inevitably centers on the war abroad. A flush of pleasure fills Edward at the idea of being included, but he tamps it down so as not to be too obvious. The men around him do not question his presence, and Edward does not wish to bring attention to the newness of the situation, which of course, also began six months ago.

Tonight they speak mostly about President Wilson's recent speech to Congress, and the viability of an independent Poland. Several of the gentlemen present are of the opinion that Wilson's "Four Principles" are too idealistic, are not practical enough to admit the realities of war. They feel it will be better to concede some territory to Germany than to prolong the battle; Edward is, naturally, of the opposite opinion, though he knows enough self control to keep his opinions to himself. That Germany and her allies must be forcefully pushed back seems ridiculously obvious to Edward. He burns with the passion and conviction necessary to commit himself to the fight, if only time would pass more quickly. Inexorably, the clock moves steadily onwards, and it is eventually time to return to the company of the ladies.

As they move into the drawing room, Edward quickly surveys the room. His mother and her two sisters are congregated demurely on richly furnished sofas, and as he walks past, Edward roguishly winks at his mother, eliciting another mostly-repressed smile. He hears snatches of their conversation, which seem to center on the difficulty the war has created in supplying the necessary silks for the new gowns they each seek to procure. Before he can be ensnared by his loving aunts and bored into nonexistence, Edward sidles by, but not without his mother's silent communication. _She is not that bad, _Edward can tell she is thinking, glancing quickly towards his attractive dinner partner, Miss Creesey?, _Go talk to her. _As he stops himself from rudely rolling his eyes, Edward catches sight of Meg, entertaining herself at the grand piano at the other end of the room. She has clearly caught the muted conversation between Edward and his mother; she seems to be repressing a similar eye roll, but it is probably _at_ Edward, rather than _for_ Edward.

He takes a northerly approach to Meg's location, avoiding as best he can the pair talking near the tea setting, Miss Creepy? (Edward congratulates his immature self and decides that will have to be her name, poor girl) and Meg's married sister, Mrs. Evangeline Dorset. He had made small talk during the interminable meal like a good little boy, surely his father could not expect more than that.

Avoiding the eager glances from Miss Creepy that Edward can clearly catch in his peripheral vision, he approaches Meg and sits beside her on the piano bench. They immediately began improvising a duet, something as natural for them as speaking. Meg is sincerely his closest friend, though she is three years his junior, and, well, a girl. Her sister, Evangeline, though closer to Edward in age, is ridiculously shallow (though Meg has other, less ladylike adjectives for her), wanting nothing more in life than a well placed and wealthy husband. Which she found, thank Heavens, rather quickly, ushering her into the prosaic life of a married woman, and freeing Edward from the necessity of escorting her about town for The Season. Meg, on the other hand, is rather a tomboy, invariably offending her prim mother with her tendency to "muck about" and spoil every set of clothing with which Meg is tortured. They had discovered very early in their lives that they both loved to run, to climb, to swim, and generally to "muck about." Sadly, Edward's gender seems to make his actions somehow expected and Meg's beyond the pale. She does clean up rather nicely, however: a fact with which Edward intends to punish her intensely.

"So, as my fiancé," Edward says, succeeds in maintaining a very earnest expression even as his fingers increase their tempo and challenge her to remain in step with him, "I would like to suggest that you deport yourself a bit more becomingly in public."

She snorts. Which has the double effect of immediately negating Edward's request and unhinging his smile.

"Oh, Edward," she coos in a dangerous tone of surprised disappointment, "I hope you aren't under the impression that I intend to be a meek little wife." Meg's fingers race across the keys, daring him to lose focus.

It is Edward's turn to snort. "_Meek_? Never. Ladylike? Perhaps. Look at you, all dressed up, coifed so fine and dressed in silk."

Her eyes grow murderous. There is nothing Meg hates more than being "primped and poked" and forced into clothing she finds constricting and ridiculous. Her tiny, upturned nose flares, and Edward nearly chortles as loudly as Meg had at dinner when he detects a small hiss escape her. She swallows dramatically, and Edward sees that he ought to distract her before she does something untoward to bring Aunt Stewart over and spoil their fun.

"But really, Meggie," Edward uses his childhood name for her to smooth things over, "why the proposal? How is it that you should suggest such a thing?" She remains silent for some time, and he glances at her, hoping to read her expression, wondering if he had hurt her feelings.

At last she speaks, and she seems to have forgiven him, for her tone of voice is normal and rational as she observes, "Your mother is intent on throwing every eligible young woman at you, which makes you miserable. My mother seems to want to remake me in Evangeline's image," they both frown, and she pauses, "which obviously makes me miserable. I was reading a wonderful book yesterday, and it dawned on me: cousins marry. Or at least they seem to in novels. Why not us?"

The logic of her arithmetic heartens Edward, and he realizes that a small part of him had feared that Meg had been transformed into, of all things, a real girl. One with romantic sensibilities. Luckily, that does not seem to be the case, and revels in a feeling of relief that she will go on being the toe-headed fey with whom he had grown up.

"Well," Edward stretches out the word, as though he is giving the matter a great deal of thought, "on the surface that does seem logically sound, but for one fatal flaw: you should never ever determine how to live your life based upon a novel." He _tsk's_ her gently, looking down his nose very condescendingly at the three years difference in their ages which suddenly loomed so large.

Exaggerated offence lights up her face in a way Edward heartily enjoys provoking.

"That is so ridiculous," she sputters, "Where should I get life lessons? Poetry, like you?"

Edward refuses to be baited. "And from what 'novel' are you taking your romantic advice?" He tries to infuse as much disdain as possible into the word _novel_, and from the look on her face, he can tell that he is successful. Her round cheeks glow pink, and her little eyebrows draw together.

Her chin thrusts upwards in defiance as she announces, "_Pride and Prejudice_. Jane Austen."

Edward swallows a laugh, but not well enough. "Of course." And then he cannot stop myself. Very immature, it's true. Edward shrugs his shoulders and states as though it were the most obvious thing in the world: "A woman novelist."

And then Meg does the most unexpected thing: she laughs. Loudly. All sound in the room, with the exception of their piano playing, suddenly ceases. And because he had already got her into trouble once this evening, Edward starts laughing even more loudly than she, drawing the room's eyes to himself. They might as well be angry at the both of them. Edward is, after all, the instigator.

However, Edward's chivalry is quickly rejected, and Meg takes command of the room as she looks first at Edward, smiles wickedly, then makes eye contact with Miss Creepy. Before Meg's mother (or Edward's) can remonstrate over their lack of decorum, Meg speaks out boldly, saying in a delighted tone in which only one who knows her as Edward does can detect a note of falseness, "Oh, Miss Crafton, Evangeline, please do join us!" Edward fights the urge to reexamine Miss Creepy to determine whether his name for her is the more appropriate one; however, he cannot look away from the humor in Meg's expression. She continues, "Edward was just telling me how much he enjoys the novels of Miss Austen. I prefer Mister Dickens, myself. What do you think?"

Though Edward is patently confident that Evangeline has never read anything so long as a limerick, let alone a novel, he knows with a dark foreboding that Meg has a devious talent for torture. Sure enough, Miss Creepy's simpering voice rings out as she bestrides the drawing room and looks longingly into Edward's face, "Oh, Margaret, I am sure that Mister Masen is correct in all his assertions, particularly in the realm of literature."

Only the knowledge that Meg is getting such a perverse enjoyment out of this situation keeps Edward from wanting to retch right there. And his innate character as a gentleman. Of course.

Evangeline comes to his assistance: "Oh, Edward already thinks he is always right, Lucy, you do not need to encourage him." And then he decides that the best revenge is to play along.

"Evangeline, please do not be so rude to our guest," Edward smiles shyly at Miss Creepy (the name will stay, he decides, if for no other reason than to be contrary), looking down at his fingers as they play the piano, though it is entirely unnecessary. With feigned impulsivity, Edward looks up at the attractive, single, and very eligible young woman through his lashes, establishing a powerful eye contact that leaves her rather embarrassingly breathless, "Miss Crafton, while I am flattered by your confidence in my opinions, and it is true that literature is a topic of study in which I humbly--" Edward ignores the delicate cough this elicits from Meg--"aspire to gain wisdom, I would so enjoy hearing about your own taste in novels."

Miss Creepy blushes scarlet. Meg not so gently stomps on his foot. Edward smiles.

"Oh…well…that is to say…" It becomes clear that he has overdone it when incoherence is all that can be discovered to issue from Miss Creepy.

Heroically, Meg swoops in and diverts them with her clear opinions, "I think that Miss Austen is a fine writer. It's a shame she didn't get to enjoy a greater degree of fame and wealth in her lifetime. I find her heroine Lizzy _in Pride and Prejudice_ delightful and enjoyably shocking. Fancy refusing such eligible matches, and all because she wasn't in love. She's quite ahead of her time. I believe she and I could be the best of friends, in fact."

"Refusing to marry her cousin, you mean?" Edward looks her squarely in the face, daring her to return to their previous topic of conversation.

"Yes," Meg says, smiling slyly, "well, not everyone is so fortunate as to have you for a cousin, Edward. Imagine having Mister Collins as ones nearest relation! It makes me shiver just to think of it."

"Well, it would be just as awful to be Mister Darcy, with everyone expecting you to marry that nonentity Miss De Bourgh. Does she speak in the entire novel?"

Triumph seems to illuminate Meg's face, and for a moment Edward is startled by the incipient beauty lying dormant there. She is only thirteen, of course, but soon some suitor in earnest would seek to woo her. Edward clenches his teeth at the thought.

Then he realizes that the gloating expression on her face is caused by engaging in a serious dialogue on a novel he had implied was beneath his notice. Edward sighs and shrugs in near defeat. He lets a last, sleepy note hang in the air as his fingers come to rest on the piano keys, asking, "And what drew you to Miss Austen's novel, as a self-avowed idolater of all things Dickensian? You were certainly never willing to alter your fare when I suggested a helping of Tennyson."

At this precise moment, God asserts His benevolence by sending Edward's aunt to beckon Miss Creepy to take some tea. Evangeline, certainly bored by a topic of discussion in which she has no interest and even less to contribute, gladly follows her friend across the room.

Meg makes a face, then quickly shoots a glance at her mother to make certain she has not been seen acting so…well, so much like herself in public. "That's true, Edward," It takes him a moment to realize that Meg is still responding to his previous comment about novels and poetry, "but that's because Tennyson is so stuffy. He drones on and on--" but she breaks off when she sees that he is about to reengage an argument that has no ending, as neither of them are willing to budge. She hurries on to complete her original thought, "However, yesterday when Miss Martin took me to visit the bookseller my father favors, I met the loveliest woman. We were browsing in the same section," Meg lowers her voice conspiratorially, "and I just turned to her and asked, 'Have you read _Nicholas Nickleby_? It's my favorite.' I don't know what came over me -- Mother and Miss Martin both would die if they knew I was addressing strangers in a shop, but I think that was part of the fun of it! She said she had read it, and that she enjoyed it very much. We talked quietly about the books we liked best, and when she realized that almost the only novels I'd read were Dickens, she convinced me to purchase _Pride and Prejudice_. She promised that if I liked it, she would suggest some more."

While Edward cannot approve of his little cousin opening herself up to the importunities of strangers, he can see clearly enough that Meg is anxious about his reaction to her little tale. Her eyes seem to be begging, _Please, Edward, understand!_ And he does. It is not as though Meg was conversing with a street vendor; she had merely had a lively and pleasing conversation with another patron of an expensive and well kept shop. Edward knows the bookseller to which she referred, and is confident that Meg could meet only respectable and, in all likelihood, wealthy citizens in such a store.

He smiles kindly, and she lets out a breath he had not realized she was holding. Meg practically bounces with enthusiasm - a fact about which her mother would not smile, and so Edward cannot help but chuckle at indulgently.

"And so you will meet this mysterious, book-peddling woman again?" Edward asks in a wry tone meant to convey his generous approval.

"Oh, yes. We're certain to see her tomorrow evening, at the benefit concert for Hull House. You know," her devious smile returns, "the one Miss Crafton was gushing on about all through dinner. You seemed so entranced, I'm certain you remember--"

"Yes, yes," Edward answers quickly, vaguely sure that he had heard Miss Addams mentioned, and far more certain that if there is a social engagement planned, his mother is sure to have more brides-to-be lined up for his inspection. Edward distracts himself from the rise of bitterness as he thinks of what he could be doing at this moment if his father had only agreed with his plan. "And she will be attending, this wise woman from the bookshop? What was her name? Did you even bother to ask as you were surreptitiously gossiping about novels together?"

"She'll be there. She lives and works at Hull House. Her name is Isabella Cullen."

**A/N: Constructive criticism? Feedback? Questions? I'd love to hear them – PM me or leave a review. Give me a chance to thank you personally for reading this story!**

**Also, if you're a lover of Austen, you should really check out the online community Pemberley Estate. (link is on my profile)**


	11. Chapter 11

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Edward**

**Chicago, 1918**

**Chapter 11**

Though Edward tries to elicit a more thorough description of her new friend, Meg refuses to budge, enigmatically saying that he will have to form his own judgments. It seems to him a terrible commentary on his present useless existence that he has nothing else to interest him at the moment. Still, Edward reasons that Meg is usually a good judge of character - someone who won over her trust and admiration so quickly could not be ordinary.

In fact, Edward congratulates himself on his foresight the next evening, as he escorts Meg into the already warm theater crowded with Chicago's wealthiest families. Hull House, begun by Miss Addams and Miss Starr almost thirty years ago, seeks to help recent immigrants with opportunities to learn and develop themselves. They offer educational courses and musical concerts for the community. It is Edward's mother's favorite local charity, and he had thoroughly enjoyed the few times he had conversed with Miss Addams, a prickly woman who speaks her mind with clarity and force. It does not escape Edward's notice that Miss Addams has been outspoken in campaigning for peace in Europe, and he considers with suspicion the idea that his mother is likely to enlist her help in the three front war on Edward's intentions to enlist.

Meg is not officially 'out' in society, and so she is closely chaperoned by her governess Miss Martin; however, Edward refuses to pretend she is not present on the rare moments when Aunt Stewart allows her to poke her head out of the house in the evening. Meg's hair is down, as bespeaks her unmarriageable status, and her dress is demure, but Edward expects that she is easily the girl in the room to whom he will have something to say, given the poor matches his mother has been offering up over the last six months. _Perhaps Meg's suggestion of matrimony is not the worst offer on hand,_ Edward thinks but then shakes the idea from his head. _Only six months more, then Father has to live up to his end of the compromise._

And, because that is simply how Edward's life goes, it is at that moment that he sees Her. He is surveying the room, in fact, feeling a bit superior to all the jockeying for position and social prestige that seems to be going on around him at an event intended to benefit a worthy charitable cause. Meaningless conversations are buzzing about him, filling Edward with a longing to be far away, doing something of value for the benefit of the world, not simply spending money and smiling at all the right people. But then She is smiling at him, shaking his hand as Meg leaps up and introduces her.

"Miss Cullen, this is my cousin Edward Masen, whom I was telling you about the other day," at this Meg lowers her voice as though divulging a torrid scandal, "The one who hates novels." Meg grins up at him, which he notes in his peripheral vision, but finds that his eyes are arrested by the ones blinking up at him, attempting to disguise a great deal of mirth. They are honey? Amber? Gold? Edward searches all the hues in his vocabulary that skirt about but refuse to capture the color of this woman's eyes.

"Edward, this is Miss Isabella Cullen, 'the mysterious book peddler' I think is what you called her last night," and at that Edward is finally successful in breaking eye contact because he looks down at Meg with all the embarrassment her words could conjure in him. Edward's face flushes red, and his peripheral vision registers Miss Cullen's stillness. Is she breathing?

Edward wants to be angry, defensive, offended by Meg's flippancy, but he just finds himself laughing instead. Only Meg can get away with such things. He manfully inhales, logging in the sweet scent of Miss Cullen's perfume, smiles at them both, and then shrugs.

"I am afraid that I am rather protective of Meg here," Edward states apologetically to Miss Cullen, "and you seem to be a bad influence on her."

Surprise and amusement light up Miss Cullen's face as the frozen intensity seems to thaw. Her face. For a moment, Edward absorbs the details of it. Her features are delicate, expressive. He is captivated by her lips, which seem to be moving, though he is so distracted, he is not sure that there has been any sound. Her bottom lip pouts out just slightly, and her top lip is almost too full, but in a way that makes him suddenly very aware of her as a woman. Edward returns his gaze to her eyes before that thought can embarrass him. What had she been saying? Her breath washes over him for a moment, and it too resembles honey or flowers.

"Edward?" Meg's voice pulls him from his stupor. "Are you alright?"

And that is when Edward has the most unexpected impulse: to run.

"I apologize…the warmth of the room…I think I need some air," he turns a most regretful look to the wall above and behind Miss Cullen, not even able to make eye contact, and he flees.

_Honestly. I thought I was prepared to face the Huns? I cannot even speak coherently to a young woman about whom I know practically nothing_. Edward's heart pounds in his chest, and he feels as though he will drown there, moving as quickly as politeness allows to the hall's exit. He tries to examine the emotions coursing through him as he leans against the antique brick exterior, pulling icy cold air into his lungs. It is almost…fear? Edward does not understand it, cannot explain it to himself. He thinks over the moments prior to his ignominious retreat, catalogues each thought, and comes to no conclusion. Miss Cullen is attractive, but so were many of the young ladies he had spoken to over the last six months. There is, perhaps, a degree of interest in her that had not been present for him in the others, but even that is unremarkable, considering that he had encountered her opinions and influence via Meg before their formal introduction. Why then such a strong, crippling response?

Edward knows his absence will be noted if he lingers much longer, but he seems incapable of crushing the resistance he feels towards reentering the concert hall. Edward closes his eyes and remonstrates with himself once more, determining that his behavior is four shades of ridiculous, but when he opens his eyes, he is startled to find an audience. Startled, and…pleased? Terrified?

"Mister Masen? Are you ill?" Her voice is musical. Edward wants to roll his eyes at how that thought sounds, even to himself, but it is true nonetheless. Her tone and stance are poised, polite, but her gaze holds an intensity that is unexpected. He watches her pale, ivory throat swallow reflexively, and then her face seems to flicker with pride? Determination? She is making some sort of decision about him, it seems, but Edward cringes away from wondering what type of decision that might be. Regarding his sanity perhaps? "Would you like me to fetch someone for you? Your father, perhaps?"

At the thought of the ensuing conversation with his father, Edward springs into action. "No, indeed, I am quite well. Thank you, Miss Cullen. Perhaps we should return?" He moves to step around her, trying as he does so, not to note how the flickering lights outside the theater glimmer on her bare neck and collar bones. Her dress is fashionable, black and elegant, hanging just to her calves. Edward is certain that Evangeline could detail the dressmaker and cost, but on his eyes it merely leaves an impression of wealth, elegance, and beauty. As he moves, Edward is struck by the stillness in her posture. His heart again takes flight, but this time he has better self-control and represses the instinct to flee from her presence. And, of course, Edward has to admit to himself that he is equally drawn to step nearer to her, but those are thoughts unbecoming to a gentleman, and of the two impulses, he would more readily flee.

It is only as Edward questions his own motives as a gentleman that it strikes him how strange that she, as a lady, would come alone to inquire about his health. Certainly she knows how fragile a lady's reputation is? Is she unaware that their reappearing together will be commented upon in a manner much to her discredit? Edward grimaces at the thought.

"Miss Cullen," he pauses, uncertain how to broach his concern in a tactful manner. "Perhaps you ought to return to the hall first, so as not to encourage gossip?" Edward expects that she will blush, but she simply looks at him quizzically. Her laughter, he finds out, is gentle, but it too has a musical quality.

"And what do you fear they will say, Mister Masen? You have already branded me a corrupter of the youth. Am I now to be seducing attractive young men?" Her humor astonishes him. She seems brash, truly seductive, and for a moment Edward again wonders whether he should encourage her friendship with Meg, but he is flattered against his better judgment by her complimentary assessment of his looks, and so he tries to adopt a similarly cavalier attitude as they ascend the marble steps into the glittering hall.

"Let us hope not. Let us pray that the youth of today possess such moral fortitude that they are above corruption, whether it arrives via novels or a bit of polite conversation."

She smiles, genuinely, which, he realizes, is distinct from the polite mask of a smile she wore earlier, and Edward wants to pat himself on the back for saying something that pleases her. "Polite conversation?" she asks, "Is that all it was?" Again with the stampeding heart! Edward quickly reviews all the words exchanged between them and can find nothing on the surface that seems to warrant her question. And yet…the force that both compels and repels him seems stronger in that moment than ever before. Edward wonders whether she feels it too.

His mother catches sight of them then, and advances upon her son with a smile far too pleased with herself. "Isabella! You found him! Thank you, my dear--" catching the perplexity in Edward's look, she explains, "Edward, darling, you exited so quickly, I grew concerned. A mother's prerogative, of course. And as Isabella is so familiar with the grounds, she was kind enough to seek you out for me. I knew if anyone could bring you back, she could," and because she is his mother, Edward knows what she is thinking: _Is this what you were looking for, all this time?_

And Edward is terrified to realize, _it was_. Isabella Cullen stands beside him, easily conversing with his mother, clearly more than a recent acquaintance. He lets the sound of her voice and the animated way in which she speaks wash over him. He does not, however, allow himself to lose track of the conversation, not like the first time they spoke, because now everything about this poised, intriguing, and, if he is honest with himself, terrifying young woman captures Edward's attention. He tries to catalogue what he knows of her, even as she seems to shimmer before his eyes.

Beautiful. _Not gaudy or overdone, but captivating, exquisite._

Fearless. _She followed me into the dark night at my mother's bidding, simply to assure herself that I was not ill._

Outspoken. _Her words were witty, confident, and given her exchange with Meg at the bookstore, she knows her own mind._

An avowed novel reader. _She had recommended Austen and was clearly familiar with Meg's favorite, Dickens. Was she a romantic? _

Caring. _She lives at Hull House, dedicating herself to its charitable mission._

She is, essentially, _good_.

Edward blinks repeatedly, trying to suppress the swell of emotion that he feels beginning to ache in his chest. _My mother is going to win_. The idea explodes into his mind, shattering all the expectations Edward had formed for his future, the plans he had made for enlisting in the war, the hopes he had of earning valor and respect, the impulse to defend democracy and freedom. They seem strewn about him in that dimly lit concert hall like rubble, casualties of the ambush that had taken him entirely by surprise. _My mother is going to win and I will not go to war and I will fall at this woman's feet and I will kiss her senseless and I will make her my wife and we will be happy._

"Edward," his mother's eyes are brimming with emotion, and he cannot even grimace at the satisfaction radiating off of her because Isabella Cullen is still standing beside him, still looking at him with those deep golden eyes, still full of mystery and grace and beauty and goodness. He tears his gaze from Miss Cullen and looks at his mother expectantly, "Edward," she repeats, "I think there is room for Isabella to join us where we are seated. Perhaps you will take her to our seats? I am sure that Meg will be reassured that you are now feeling so much better."

"Oh," Edward had not even thought of Meg and how his abrupt escape must have distressed her, "of course. Miss Cullen, would you care to join us?"

She merely nods and moves lithely towards the aisle down which Edward can see Meg arguing with Miss Martin, straining her neck to look about the room. He and his cousin's eyes meet, and she visibly exhales a sigh of relief. Narrowing her eyes a bit, Meg flings her thoughts at him:_ We won't discuss this now, Edward, but you'd best bet you'll be explaining yourself later_. He scowls so that she can see it, letting her know that he understands and will comply.

As Miss Cullen takes a seat between Edward and Meg, she turns away from the lovelorn young man and speaks conspiratorially to his cousin, beginning with, "And so, Meg, how did you find the Bennets?"

**A/N: Wow, I'm really excited to tell you that BittenBee has written an extremely nice recommendation for this story at The Little Known Ficster blog. The link is on my profile.**

**Additionally, I've started posting Notes on each chapter on my Live Journal page. I don't think you have to be familiar with the novels or historical details mentioned in this story in order to follow and (hopefully) enjoy it, but just in case you're curious or confused - there's a link on my profile page. Thanks to Booksgalore for that great idea.**


	12. Chapter 12

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Can you read and enjoy the following chapter with no prior knowledge of Jane Austen's **_**Mansfield Park**_**? I certainly hope so, but just in case you'd enjoy it MORE with a quick summary, I'm breaking my "keep beginning A/N's to a minimum" rule, so here we go: **

Feel free to skip: _Mansfield Park_ tells the somewhat Cinderella-like story of Fanny Price, who leaves her home and parents to live with her aunt, uncle, and cousins during the Regency period of England's history. She's educated and housed at her uncle's expense, and she falls deeply in love with her cousin, Edmund. (Remember, as Meg said in Chapter 12, cousins marry, in novels, anyway) Edmund, however, is dazzled by Miss Mary Crawford, a worldly and engaging young woman who comes to visit them in the company of her brother, Henry Crawford, an even more worldly and engaging rogue. The little love-square is complicated by the fact that Henry DECIDES to woo Fanny for the challenge of it, and, arguably falls in love with her. Because she lives on the margin of the family's wealth, Fanny sees clearly that Henry is a flirt and inconstant in his affections. She refuses him, though in doing so, she angers her uncle and is cast back into poverty and pines for the attention of her cousin Edmund. Edmund, not nearly as clear-sighted, is just about to propose to Mary Crawford when his elder brother Tom falls ill and Mary rather unwisely reveals that she hopes that Tom dies so that Edmund will inherit the family's wealth and won't have to be a clergyman. Oh, and in the meantime, Henry Crawford is so discouraged by Fanny's refusal to marry him that he seduces Edmund's sister, who is already married. In the end, the wicked Crawfords are exiled from Mansfield Park (the home of Fanny's uncle), and Fanny is rewarded for her steadfastness with the chastened love of her cousin Edmund. Thus the fairy tale ends. I do sincerely recommend the film, directed by Rozema, as it makes Fanny much more likeable than Austen manages to do, and of course, my mini-summary leaves out the best character: Aunt Norris.

**Edward, February 1918**

**Chicago**

**Chapter 12**

Edward's plan to woo and marry Miss Isabella Cullen is complicated by more than their conflicting taste in literature: well, that and it seems to Edward that he irritates her more than is typical for a proper suitor. He stumbles upon this less than flattering assessment as they wait for the commencement of the musical program. She seems determined to ignore his presence, conversing animatedly with Meg about the merits of _Pride and Prejudice_ over _Mansfield Park_. Tired of being left out, Edward decides to throw his own opinion into the conversation – better to engage them on their topic of choice than sit mute beside her.

"Fanny Price," he announces authoritatively, "is absolutely right to dismiss the attentions of Henry Crawford. The man is a scoundrel. Fanny has an uncompromising moral compass. Her determination to resist the pressure of all dissenting opinions and hold on to what she knows to be right demonstrates just how unworthy Henry Crawford is of her good opinion. The man cannot decide what he wants." This last judgment is spoken with all the condemnation of a young man of sixteen who knows exactly what he wants. Edward ceases his lecture to find two female faces staring at him, mouths slightly agape. The difference is that Meg's expressive eyes communicate her entertainment that one: Edward is once again discussing Austen like it is literature of merit, and two: he has come across as a pompous ass. What Miss Cullen's expression communicates is entirely a mystery to him. Well, until her perfectly sculpted eyebrow quirks in what can only be labeled as derision, and he watches himself visibly demoted in her estimation.

"I believe that is a very popular reading of those characters, Mr. Masen, thank you," Miss Cullen speaks the words in a voice that is just as musical as it was previously, and yet there is a distinct edge of polite coolness to be felt. _No_, he thinks, _I am not ready to be dismissed_.

"And am I to understand by that remark that a popular opinion is, in your judgment, necessarily flawed?"

She seems to pause and consider her response very carefully before nodding tightly, "In my experience, popular opinions often appeal to a wide multitude for reasons wholly unconnected to truth or merit."

Rather than bow out gracefully, which his escalating pulse suggests that he do immediately, Edward feels compelled to engage her further, "But you will admit, in fairness, that an opinion held by a majority of people is not _necessarily_ incorrect. It might be a popular opinion and, incidentally, also be correct?" Her gaze sharpens, but she begrudgingly affirms his claim; he continues, "So besides the popularity of my reading of Fanny Price, what flaw do you find in my assessment?" Edward wants so much to hold her attention, to keep her honey-colored gaze riveted upon him. He finds that he wants to challenge her and, truly, wants to know what she thinks, on this topic and every other under the sun.

So Edward is naturally disappointed when she, instead, withdraws, pastes on a conventional smile and answers impassively, "As to that, Mr. Masen, I suppose your reading of the characters is as valid as my own," and then she turns her attention exclusively back to Meg – Meg, who has watched this short debate volley back and forth with wide eyes and rapt attention. "_Mansfield Park, _as I said, Meg, is not as engaging as _Pride and Prejudice_, but all of Austen's novels are worth reading. Novels, I find," and here Edward thinks he catches the slyest of smirks, "are often the best vehicle by which one can experience the world outside oneself. Novels allow us to be anyone, go anywhere."

_Is she provoking me?_ He wonders. _I cannot allow such a statement to go unremarked._ "Centuries of literature argue against you, Miss Cullen." She makes the act of turning back towards Edward quite communicative: his objection is nothing more than she expects. _Well_, he thinks, _I can anticipate your arguments as well as you seem to dismiss mine._ "Poetry, not novel writing, has been the most reliable means by which the millennia have been transcribed with beauty and purpose. But I suppose you will quote Miss Austen and assert that novels are 'in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language.'"

Miss Cullen's eyes dilate either in surprise or anger just as the house lights are extinguished and the musical concert begins. Even in the dimness that envelopes them, Edward can see Meg's owl eyes blinking at him with surprise. For a moment, he wants to stick his tongue out at her, honestly, but he controls the impulse to behave so juvenilely and instead works on presenting the appearance of rapt attention to the concert. Appearance only because the truth is that Edward hears not a single note of the entire program – his entire attention is concentrated on the woman beside him, a woman he believes to have either thoroughly impressed or thoroughly annoyed.

Unfortunately, at the intermission Edward is made perfectly aware that it is the latter. As the house lights come up, he is left little time to wonder whether their previous conversation might or even ought to be resumed. Meg is pleased to assure it is so.

"Edward," she says as she leans forward and speaks around Miss Cullen, "was that really Jane Austen you were quoting just before the concert began? How fascinating that you should have committed to memory the words of a 'lady novelist'!"

He smirks just a bit at Meg in response, to let her know that he recognizes what she is trying to do. Then he raises his chin just a tad and lifts one eyebrow to communicate to her his absolute refusal to be provoked just now. "Truly, Meg, it is rather more remarkable that a 'lady novelist,' as you dub her, should be so pithy and articulate, but I find it a worthy occupation to commit wisdom to memory wherever it is found, even, in the rare occasions, on the pages of a novel."

It is Miss Cullen who draws her verbal sword at this point, reposting with a quick, "So you admit that her words contained wisdom? When the passage you quote from _Persuasion_ details the vast merits of the novel as a genre? How oddly you go about debating, Mister Masen: by providing authoritative testimony for your opponents. Perhaps you think we 'book peddlers' need all the help we can find?"

Edward's face may or may not have turned a ridiculous shade of red at this point in the conversation. But if he harbors the hope that his "opponent's" gender will afford him any mercy or compassion, it is a vain hope. Her gaze rather sharpens than anything else, fixating on his embarrassing blush, which regrettably has the effect of staining his cheeks an even deeper red. It is only when he tries to stammer out a reply that Miss Cullen seems to take pity on him and cut him off with a quiet, "I apologize," which she speaks under her breath as she gracefully excuses herself and leaves, presumably to find a refreshment and afford him the opportunity to collect his shattered ego.

When she has gone out of earshot, Edward buries his face in his hands and lets out a pathetic little moan of self-contempt. Unfortunately, his contemplation of just how ridiculous he must have appeared before The Woman of his Dreams is interrupted by a slow, mocking round of applause coming from his right. He turns only slightly to peek up at Meg, who nods approvingly, continues to clap, and mouths the word "Bravo" repeatedly.

While it would be ideal to record that Edward is mature enough to endure Meg's jibes in silence or laugh them off with an easy grace, his embarrassment overwhelms his better self, and he sends Meg a withering look while biting out a quick, "What a lovely acquaintance you've made in the bookshop," redirecting all his personal contempt towards his little cousin. She visibly shrinks into her seat, and now his embarrassment is only compounded with guilt. He rises abruptly, intending to revisit his chilly post outside the concert hall and hopefully rediscover his character as a gentleman.

His character must sulk outside alone, however, as Edward only makes it halfway up the aisle, before his escape is arrested by the sight of Miss Cullen in rapt conversation with his cousin Evangeline's husband, Richard Dorset. She is standing quite close to him, listening to him with an expression of wondrous admiration. How strange: Edward always found him to be insipidly boring. _What could he possibly be saying that has Miss Cullen so entranced?_ But as Edward moves to approach them discreetly, she turns just slightly to her right and looks directly into his eyes over the crook of Dorset's arm, which, Edward loathes to see, he is offering to her rather gallantly. Miss Cullen's eyes hold Edward's gaze for what seems to him an exceptionally significant amount of time, but he finds this entrancing woman impossible to read. Every tilt of the chin, every quirk of the brow, every pout, every blink, every twitch seems to mean anything, and all those anythings seem to contradict one another! Edward's mind is a buzzing hive of questions: _Just now, just before she accepted Dorset's accompaniment up the crowded aisle, was that look one of dismissal or was it an act of flirtation? Was she inviting me to feel jealous, or was she trying to tell me that I am no more than a boy in her eyes? How can one person communicate so much and so little at the same time?_

As he moves to follow her into the lobby, his mother waylays him, gabbing about the concert whilst wearing a rather smug smile on her face. When he finally arrives in the gas-lit foyer, there is no sign of Miss Cullen, and Edward is trapped into arbitrating a rather ridiculous discussion between his Aunt Stewart and his cousin Evangeline on the issue of what constitutes a reasonable donation to the Hull House charity. When the concert is about to resume, he finally extracts himself from his relations and returns to his seat but is disconcerted to find that Miss Cullen is still absent. The music begins. The music ends. The seat directly to Edward's right remains unoccupied. He realizes how forlorn he must appear when Meg catches his eye and gently says, "So, it's to be the most complicated way then?" He can only nod, mutely.

Though it grates against his every instinct, Edward is forced to concede to his mother that Miss Cullen is not under their protection, and it is none of his business if she chooses to attend only part of the performance; however, he does win the concession (freely given) that Mrs. Masen will write and invite Miss Cullen to tea as early as politely possible on the following day. Though Edward's tendency to worry is relieved the next afternoon by the arrival of Miss Cullen's reply, his hope to see her again is thwarted by the very kindly proffered refusal. Her responsibilities at Hull House do not afford her the very great pleasure of taking tea with Mrs. Masen at this time, but she hopes this might be rectified in the future, etcetera.

On Wednesday of the same week, Edward finds that he cannot possibly live without another copy of Tennyson's _The Idylls of the King_. He takes his time browsing the stacks of books at Meg's favorite book shop, earning more than one curious glance from the clerk, but fails to catch a glimpse of Miss Cullen, which only in his utter disappointment can he admit to himself was his true aim.

On Thursday, Edward contemplates finding an excuse to visit Hull House himself, but settles for an afternoon visit to his Aunt Stewart's home, with the definite intention of gleaning any useful knowledge that Meg might possess as to the personality or preferences of her elusive friend. Unfortunately for Edward's lovelorn self, a quiet tête-à-tête with Meg is impossible, as he finds, upon his arrival, the Stewart home in a state of chaos. A maid opens the door to admit him, but he is immediately struck with the sound of relentless weeping coming from above, and is disturbed to see the housekeeper rushing down the stairs, heading towards the kitchen at a break-neck pace. He sees himself up to the drawing room, from whence the wailing seems to originate, and opens the door gently, rather dreading what he might find. What finds him is Meg, who barrels into him, clutching him tightly and burying her tear-streaked face into his chest. He looks over her rather disheveled head and sees Evangeline, who is the source of the prolific keening he could hear from downstairs.

Seemingly immune to her mother's gentle ministrations, her face barely registers his presence, so he is not sure if she is speaking to him, or merely to herself as she says in an empty voice, "Richard is dead."

**A/N: As ever, I want to express my gratitude for the support and encouragement I've received while writing this story, along with some amazingly helpful constructive criticism. I'd love to get a chance to thank you personally for reading it - leave me a review, a PM, or hop on over to the Twilighted thread and say hello. **


	13. Chapter 13

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Edward**

**Chicago, March 1918**

**Chapter 13**

For twenty-seven days, life revolves around other things, things that even Edward can admit are more important than his infatuation with Miss Isabella Cullen. The entire family goes into mourning, which curtails their social commitments significantly and keeps the focus of their attention inward. Although the family hardly had time to get to know Richard Dorset well, his absence seems striking, affecting the way that many of them view the world. Evangeline, after emoting dramatically upon learning of her new husband's death, seems to shrink into herself. Widowhood has sloughed off the frivolous girl that was Edward's cousin, leaving a subdued, mature woman in its place. Meg too seems altered: quieter, harder to read. She spends a great deal of time sitting quietly with her sister or reading to Evangeline to distract her from her grief. In twenty-seven days, grief bonds them together in ways that youth never could.

For Edward, the paradigm shift is caused less by sorrow and more by the disturbing proximity with which violence has come to call. Since fighting had begun in Europe years ago, he had watched with an eager fascination, regaling his poor mother with the latest news from the battlefront. From across the Atlantic, the skirmishes and battlefields were baptized with passion and anesthetized with faith. Somehow, death did not seem so gruesome. Now, in the wake of Dorset's death, Edward finds himself disturbed. Unsettled. Uneasy. No glory redeems poor Dorset's passing, and it causes Edward to question whether death is ever really ushered in with grace. Worse still, he keeps imagining Dorset's last moments, seeing himself in his place, and Edward cannot even articulate the panic that bubbles up inside him when he truly ponders his own mortality for the first time. Perhaps his imaginings are worse than reality – perhaps Dorset was surprised by death, suffered little, stepped easily into the afterlife. Edward fervently wants to believe this, but cannot. Instead, he keeps seeing his own face superimposed upon Richard's, keeps waking from nightmares full of running, fear, helplessness, despair.

The police fished Richard Dorset from the river twenty-seven days ago. He had only been missing for a short time – just long enough for Evangeline to remark his absence the night before and the bank where he worked to inquire as to his whereabouts in the morning. But apparently, long enough to be murdered and disposed of. Long enough to be overcome, overwhelmed, overpowered.

And now, Evangeline is an adult, and Meg is a shadow, and Edward is a coward.

Despite these alterations, twenty-seven days do pass, and on the twenty-eighth, Miss Isabella Cullen reenters his life. It happens at church, which might have struck him as symbolic or portentous twenty-seven days ago, but now simply strikes him as odd. Edward's mother has sent him on an errand, sent him with a package of castoff clothing to be donated to the needy of the parish, though he recognizes dully that she could just as easily have sent a servant. So it comes as no surprise when Father Andrew uses the opportunity to assess Edward's spiritual health. The iconoclastic arrival of Death on his doorstep twenty-seven days ago has rendered Edward's religious faith among its casualties. Edward mutely endures the conversation, and with a sense of reprieve makes his way out the church's exit.

His departure is abruptly halted when he hears her voice.

"Mr. Masen?" Though he pauses, Edward finds it impossible to turn around. Frozen – neither coming nor going – it seems to him appropriate for how he feels in that moment. It makes no difference: she approaches him on the great steps leading from the church's west end, stepping into his line of vision with a question resting in her eyes. "Miss Cullen," she says, gesturing to herself, as though Edward might not remember her from their introduction twenty-nine days, thirteen hours, and six minutes ago. She wears a forgiving smile. He thinks that _before_, he might have worshipped her for that smile, but now…now it is just one more thing to fear, one more thing to lose.

"Yes," he says, trying to step outside himself, observe from afar, "I remember. How do you do?" Edward aims at polite but lands somewhere near haunted.

Just as he is about to congratulate himself on his remarkable ability to dissemble, she undercuts him with a simple, "What has happened?" Her question is direct, spoken in a voice that expects, needs to be answered.

"I'm sorry?" Edward can hardly choke out the words, certain for a moment that this remarkable woman can see into his mind, can read him like one of her beloved novels, and the feeling is both exhilarating and terrifying. Once more he feels that impulse to flee her presence, while simultaneously longing to draw ever nearer to her. Just as he is inclined to act on the former urge, she tentatively reaches out her gloved hand and lays it on his arm, just above the elbow. They are both heavily coated and bundled to retain as much warmth as the March wind will allow them, but still it seems to Edward that every ounce of heat has rushed to that spot and his nerves crackle with awareness. It is not simply that her touch breaks countless rules of decorum -- in it he finds himself lost in an emotion rarely experienced during these last twenty-seven days: hope.

Her eyes find his, and though he cannot imagine what she finds of interest there, her gaze is arrested. "You have suffered a loss," she states, nodding gently to the black crepe he wears in remembrance. "I am sorry," this last is whispered softly, and he cannot tell whether she intends for him to hear it. In her amber eyes swirl a plethora of emotions, but as with the last time Edward saw this remarkable young woman, he cannot for the life of him confidently name them. Regret? Compassion? Sorrow? Fear?

This last guess is his fortitude's undoing, as it mirrors the emotions that have been bombarding his own heart for the last too many days. A ragged breath escapes him, which may have been closer to a broken sob, as again he feels the emotion of despair wash over him in the wake of Dorset's murder. _Death is ugly._ The idea beats at his head and robs Edward of any pretension of dignity before this woman.

"I am so sorry, I fear that I have distressed you," she seems discomposed, and that is a very great relief to him. She, who in their short acquaintance, has seemed as lofty as a statue of Athena, here on the steps of the First Episcopal Church of Chicago, Miss Isabella Cullen seems unequal to the situation.

It may be rather ungentlemanly of Edward, but a laugh, though a bit bitter in tone, escapes him at this idea. _Thank God_, he thinks, and then manages to laugh just a little more at the appropriateness of the prayer, given his present location. And then, Edward realizes it is the first genuine laugh in twenty-eight days.

As he glances over at her, he can see that Miss Cullen is a tad baffled by his mercurial moods. But decorum requires that she pass over them unremarked, and so he is unsurprised when she merely shakes her head a bit and persists with a polite, "Mr. Masen, can I be of any assistance? Would you like to return to the church perhaps? Or might I—"

But Edward refuses to replay the scene outside the concert hall, does NOT want to be the damsel in distress, and so he interrupts with a confident, "No, indeed, Miss Cullen, thank you, I am quite alright." He ignores the look of incredulity she shoots him as he utters this obvious falsehood, and extracts himself from her touch, though it pains him more than he would like to admit. It is bad enough that the very foundations of his values have been shaken by a chance encounter with Death, he need not expose his apostasy to the idol of his adoration. And yet—another part of Edward feels compelled to drop his broken illusions at her feet and pray for a miracle of mending. _Death is ugly_ – the mantra repeats – but Miss Isabella Cullen seems to Edward to stand above, perhaps even sovereign over such truths as this.

She reads the ambivalence in his face, he supposes, much more clearly than he reads her enigmatic gaze, and says the very thing best designed to force his acquiescence: "I am afraid I am rather cold out here – it is far colder than I anticipated today, and I seem to have walked farther than I intended, as well. Perhaps you would accompany me on the trolley back?"

What can a gentleman possibly do, but assent to such a request? And why should Edward wish to say no? The contradictory emotions that seem to war within him whenever he finds himself in Miss Cullen's presence are perplexing to say the least. However, rather than brood upon this observation, he takes the opportunity to stand close to her seat in the nearly-empty trolley and ponder the fact that he can breathe fully for the first time in twenty-eight days.

Though they avoid eye contact during most of the journey across town, Edward has the distinct feeling that Miss Cullen is watching him. He tries to catch her at it – turning his head in her direction abruptly, as though something has caught his attention, but try as he might, she is just too fast for him. Just when he is about to give up, he whips his gaze towards her, only to find himself startled by her amused, honey-colored eyes. A regal eyebrow lifts incrementally, and he once again finds himself blushing like a silly schoolboy in her presence.

And if his thoughts were not roiling enough in the sea of his mind, at that very moment, the trolley approaches its stop nearest to Hull House. Her commanding voice rings out, "Here, please, driver." As she stands, the trolley lurches to a halt and Miss Cullen stumbles into Edward, whose arms dutifully embrace her. _Remember this moment. Remember everything about this moment!_ His brain commands him, but though he tries later, he can hardly conjure any distinct impressions, only the feeling of _nearness_ and the sweet ambrosia of her embarrassed laugh. Too quickly Miss Cullen is out of the trolley car, waving him a shy good-bye and disappearing around a frosty corner. Edward rides the trolley to and fro the rest of the afternoon, lost in the hazy sweetness of her touch, free from the ache of disillusionment for the first time in twenty-seven days.

**A/N: I hope you like character development - as you can see, this story is much more a character study of these two conflicted individuals than it is an adventure tale. I'm not sure why this chapter was so hard wrought, but it was. It's so much more fun to write a starry-eyed Edward than one who is aching and lost, internally, I suppose. Does it make sense that Richard Dorset's death would be so traumatic to a young man who has been longing to face Death for so many years? I'd love some feedback on that.**

**As ever, I want to express my gratitude for the support and encouragement I've received while writing this story, along with some amazingly helpful constructive criticism. I'd love to get a chance to thank you personally for reading it - leave me a review, a PM, or hop on over to the Twilighted thread and say hello.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Edward**

**Chicago, March 1918**

**Chapter 14**

When the news of Russia's separate peace reaches Edward in early March, he is too numb to react. But by the time the treaty between the Bolsheviks and the Huns is ratified later in the month, he has found a new emotion to consume him: anger.

A thorough gentleman, Edward wears his politeness like a second skin, concealing the hostility he feels inside. Pinched between his newly acquired antipathy for death and a remaining conviction that sometimes war is necessary, he resents the new eyes with which he views this old conflict. _It was better when I was an eager pup_, he thinks, _salivating for a chance at glory_. Now the world looks broken, but Edward can find few alternatives to entering the fray, if the war lingers.

"Still no leads on poor Dorset's murder," Edward's father announces to him one evening as they settle near the fire in his study. Edward is sipping a glass of wine and feeling rather taciturn, but manages an inquisitive look in response to his father's statement, which is accepted as an invitation to continue. "Strangest thing, you know, Dorset's death. Thought at first he had been mugged outside the bank, robbed or whatnot, but his pocket watch was still in his waistcoat, so it would have to have been a rather sloppy crook. No witnesses, of course, and the river did a fine job washing away most of everything. Still, can't get over this feeling I have, understand?"

This conversation is veering far too close to Edward's own ruminations, making him feel decidedly uncomfortable. The popping logs in the hearth seem to mock him, full of a snapping vivacity that he lacks. Distantly, Edward recognizes that a more naïve version of himself would have reveled in the way his father is confiding in him, talking to him as an adult, but this brittle self Edward has evolved into finds it impossible to revel at all, and certainly not in taking on the burdens of his own father's anxiety. Edward mutely nods when his father glances his way, and for a moment he feels suspicious – perhaps these are not his father's anxieties at all, but he is trying to draw Edward out, compel him to admit his own cowardice?

Apparently the crackle of the fire makes an adequate response because the elder Masen continues, harrumphing and dwelling on the very subject Edward least wishes to discuss. Images he cannot exorcise continue to dog his thoughts, particularly now, when his father's ruminations have conjured the specters by name. Again the sound of running feet on cobblestones, the pounding of a human heart, the cry of alarm, and then…red fills his imagination. Edward's own heart beats erratically, first with panic and fear, then anger that his emotions continue to make a mockery of his will.

"I would like to work in your office, if I may--if I would be useful, and not a hindrance." If Edward's change of subject strikes his father as odd, he is too polite to comment: certainly this is the first time Edward has shown a personal interest in the law practice, and the conflicting emotions of pride and concern war in his father's face for primacy. Pride wins. It usually does.

"Of course, Edward. I would be very satisfied if you were to show an inclination to pursue law as a career. I had thought your interests lay elsewhere…" he tapers off, expecting the young man to interject, but when his son remains silent, he continues, "Yes, well…you realize you will have to work your way up. Start as a clerk? No preferential treatment?"

Edward nods his assent, and his father seems satisfied; the son feels merely relieved that the conversation has strayed away from Dorset's murder. Unfortunately, the elder gentleman quickly segues into a topic that Edward dreads nearly as much: the war. Again, there is that disconcerting sense of standing outside himself, feeling a bit perplexed by the instinct to shy away from a conversation that, just a month ago, he would have relished. His father expounds upon his disdain for the Bolshevik government's decision to make peace with the Central Powers. When it is clear that Edward has little to add, his father leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees and makes a decided effort to catch Edward's gaze. His right eyebrow quirks upwards, and his son has known this look for too long to disregard it. It says _Enough_ and _I want an answer, _but Edward can also see for the first time that it carries a degree of _I am worried about you_ and _I wish you would trust me_.

Edward has always been closer to his mother, seeing his father as a bit of a demigod – rather difficult to approach with inconsequential concerns like life and love. He wonders briefly if some of the anger he feels burning like a torch inside might be quenched if he could just tell his father, say it out loud, but the clock in the hall chimes the hour and their gaze breaks, and the moment passes. The elder Edward Masen pats his son's shoulder as he rises to exit, and the younger Edward Masen is left uncertain whether his father intends him to hear the sigh that he heaves as he opens the study's door.

-------

Days pass, but the anger does not wane. It seems to feed on time, using the tick of the clock, the rising and setting of the sun to fan its flames. The anger, frustration, hostility, whatever word can encompass all the resentment and fear that Edward feels, stands between his life and himself like a screen, leaving him visible to the world but unable to reach it. Edward cannot read, cannot eat, cannot sleep. He walks. He rides the trolley. He works silently in his father's office. He avoids company as much as possible, fearing the moment when his façade of manners will crumble at his feet and leave him exposed. He simply cannot reconcile the disillusionment he has experienced with the vision of the man he is intended to become.

If Edward's father can only make an ineffectual feint at the trenches of his son's resistance, trust Edward's mother to lay a full siege. She invites Miss Cullen to tea once again, and this time she will not be denied. Nor would she have accepted any excuses, had Edward dared (or desired) to make any, for his own absence that day. Instead, she welcomes Miss Cullen into the parlor on the cloudy afternoon of March the eighteenth, and after greetings are made all around, immediately asks her son to play the piano. His irritation flares, causing Edward to wish his mother had a daughter she could focus her matrimonial efforts upon, but he smiles resolutely and tries to focus his attention upon the piece he is playing. Edward has chosen one of the harder pieces in his repertoire, thinking that might serve two purposes: to challenge him enough to require his full focus, and, if Edward is fortunate, impress Miss Cullen, even just a little. Alas, he thinks perhaps he is unsuccessful on both fronts; certainly, he knows that though he plays reasonably well, his attention is almost wholly engaged by the flawless young woman sitting beside his mother. After a bit of polite applause, Edward stands up determinedly and considers whether he ought to beat a hasty retreat before he finds himself saying something rather ridiculous in front of this woman.

But Edward's mother outflanks him, excuses herself when the housekeeper pops her head in (obviously a prearranged event to Edward's way of thinking), and he is instead left feeling chagrined at underestimating his mother's strategic abilities. And, unreasonable though it may be, it is that moment, as his cheeks pink and the door snicks closed, that Edward's armor of politeness falters. He steels himself for what he will find as he turns to face Her, but is still unprepared for the force of his feelings.

"You play very well," she says, but her eyes are distant and her smile seems false. Edward wonders how, with only two previous encounters, he can already measure the sincerity of her smiles.

He knows what the proper response is: he should thank her for the compliment, but humbly point out one or two flaws in his performance; she will, no doubt, politely disregard those weaknesses and insist that his playing was masterfully executed.

"I do," he says, instead, and feels the tremors ripple through the façade he has dutifully erected, "but not today," and then, feeling very daring, he allows his gaze to intensify as he declares, "I found it hard to concentrate today." Edward wills her to ask him the source of his distraction, longs to unfold to her the strangely compelling attraction he feels when he is near her, but Miss Cullen's determination to behave properly seems stronger than his, on this occasion at least. And it is that memory of Miss Cullen's touch on his arm outside the church that fuels Edward's anger beyond his control.

"But then," Edward says, drawing a breath of her sweet perfume, which only seems to incense him further, "I seem to have been in a state of perpetual distraction for the last month." Words that could have been spoken in a sweet, flirtatious whisper are instead tossed down like a gauntlet between them. Is he accusing her of something? Edward is not even sure – he simply knows that he is tired of his world being turned topsy-turvy, and Miss Isabella Cullen's appearance in his life is wrapped up in that paradigm shift. Her dangerous beauty is entwined in his mind with the discovery that death is quite the opposite.

She clearly resents his tone, as her face grows stony. Eyes that hinted at melted honey seem to crystallize, resembling a brittle topaz. "Is that a fact?" she responds, pursing her lips just slightly. And though he typically has trouble reading her, there is no mistaking the waves of disdain breaking upon him now.

Part of Edward, the part that houses all the admonitions his mother has ever taught him regarding chivalry and courtesy, is frantically trying to seize control of his mouth, but for now, it is the part of Edward that is least mature, least forgiving of either himself or others, that holds those particular reigns. This part of Edward refuses to accept her implied criticism, the impression that he is behaving like a child. Who is she to censure him for rudeness, when from the moment they met, she has been flouting the rules of decorum? Is it his fault alone if he finds himself on tenuous ground, confused and frustrated by the nature of their relationship, by the fragility of his whole world?

"It is." In those two words, launched across the room like a warning shot, is housed all the anger and frustration and confusion Edward has been carrying, and he wonders if he is answering her question or his own. Her eyes change once again, and he cannot help the feeling of panic that spins through his mind: _Idiot. Nincompoop. Absolute imbecile. She will leave now and never come back._ And that thought too fills him with anger and fear and a little bit of elation – if Miss Cullen is banished from his life, might he not cobble together some semblance of what he once was?

But she does not leave; instead, she reaches for her teacup, takes a patient sip, and turns to him with a look he cannot decipher.

"Your mother tells me that it is your intention to enlist, that your father will actually arrange for your enlistment upon your seventeenth birthday," once again she is shrouded in mystery. Is she simply making polite conversation, or does she somehow sense how intrinsically tied his resentment is to the very subject she has raised? Regardless, the statement entirely deflates Edward, leaves him feeling beaten about and exhausted.

He sits, collapses really, into an uncomfortable chair a little distance from Miss Cullen, closes his eyes, runs his hand wearily through his hair. Any hesitation he feels towards making a fool of himself before her is swept away with the realization that he could not possibly behave worse than he already has done. "I did. I wanted to enlist so very much. Hated every moment I spent here, wasting my time when there was a job to be done. Resented every day I woke in my bed, safe and warm and coddled. And I do still, I suppose, but now…now I hate the alternative as well: fighting, killing. I'm a coward, I suppose, but I just cannot—I don't think it's in me now—and yet, I want to be a man my father can be proud of, do my duty. But I am horrified at the thought—at the very idea—" All these confessions are made blind, with his eyes closed so that he need not watch the inevitable judgment arrive in her face.

"And so you are caught between life and death – unable to make sense of a world so painfully transformed?" Her words are whispered, and his heart leaps to his throat.

"Yes," he swallows with difficulty and whispers back, "Precisely." His look of gratitude communicates all that he feels. Rapidly his heart beats against his breast, surging through him the glorious refrain: _She understands._

Her demeanor abruptly alters, withdraws into a look of modest inquiry, and Edward tries not to feel wounded, particularly as his mother comes bustling into the room, making empty apologies for her absence. The rest of the visit is rather uneventful, if any minute spent in Miss Cullen's presence can be termed that for Edward. She graciously thanks Mrs. Masen for her hospitality and shakes Edwards hand in farewell. Does he imagine that she lingers over the moment regretfully, as he does? Regardless, she is gone too soon, and Edward is left to wonder how he is to fill the void she leaves behind, a void no longer crowded by anger, just jostled about by questions of purpose and worth.

**A/N: Thank you for your patience, and for taking the time to read this story. It looks like Thursdays are a better publishing day for me in 2010, so I'll probably plan to get the next chapter up a week from today. Many thanks to Books - for all her input and assistance in making this story as realistic as possible. I'll post a bit on my LJ about the Brest-Litovsk treaty (between Russia and the Central Powers), so if you're interested, the link is on my profile page.**

**Also, the Indie Awards are receiving nominations right now - I encourage you to pop over and spread some love to the stories you enjoy that you think are under-read. **


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: So far, I've been exploring the narrative technique called "Free Indirect Discourse," in which the third-person, limited narrator intermittently takes on the characteristics of one or more of the characters in the story. I point this out only to make clear that the narrative voice in this story does not necessarily reflect the views of the author. During the "Edward" portions of the tale, the philosophical, religious, and/or literary opinions expressed as assumptions of the narrator reflect the opinions I imagine to be held by Edward Cullen in the year 1918. For more discussion or information on this topic, see my LJ page (link on my profile).**

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Edward**

**Chicago, May 1918**

**Chapter 15**

Every day that passes that does not afford Edward an opportunity to see Miss Cullen seems to him a day wasted. Far too many days have been wasted, in Edward's opinion. Nineteen days in just the last month, to be exact.

Most encounters are far too brief, and only seem to leave him more puzzled and, if possible, more smitten than before. On some occasions she seems pleased to see Edward, engages him in conversation, is quick to laugh and slow to walk away, but on others, Miss Cullen is quiet, reserved, cold even. On these occasions, he can coax nary a smile from her, and watches her go with a feeling equal parts regret and relief. Truly, Edward is afraid that these cold fronts have been increasingly frequent. As spring flexes its muscles and asserts its benevolent influence on the world, Miss Cullen seems to be withdrawing into her own ice age.

But only with Edward. She is a frequent visitor at his aunt's home, has even managed to win over Evangeline. Everyone but Edward seems to encounter friendliness and warmth, graciousness and vivacity. Perhaps it is the folly of youth or, (as Meg tells him) that he possesses an enormous ego, but Edward clings to the hope that the singular treatment he receives might be a result of some special status in her mind. In any case, Edward hopes very much that it is not because he holds the distinction of being the only person in her social circle that annoys her past the limits of her good breeding. _Please, God, _he prays, _do not let it be that._

On the afternoon of May the twenty-first, Edward sits silently waiting for Meg to return from a walk. Admittedly, he is brooding a bit because, apparently, Meg has been for a walk with Miss Cullen. For a few anxious moments, the emotion of irritation bubbles up within him, but whatever small amount of anger he finds directed in his mind towards his cousin, it is quadrupled when he recognizes that he is actually jealous -- of a thirteen year old girl. _This is ridiculous._ For a young man with a rather hefty sense of self-importance, Edward is discovering new depths of self-loathing.

Rising and pacing the quiet drawing room, Edward tries to distract himself. He checks his appearance in the looking glass hanging over the fireplace mantle. Nothing amiss. He gazes out the window. Nothing of interest. He sits down in the plush chair nearest the fire. Meg seems to be reading Dickens again, and Edward smiles indulgently at her proclivity for his silliness. A quick examination of the room's other reading material affords him nothing better, so he huffs a sigh and picks up the novel. He is surprised to discover that this volume is not her favorite, _Nicholas Nickleby_, but is in fact _Great Expectations._ It's no Tennyson, but as a means of distraction it will have to do.

But Edward could not have chosen a more ineffectual diversion from the torment of Miss Cullen than in the lovelorn tale of Pip and the tantalizing Estella Havisham. She goads him on, she pushes him away; she draws him in, she treats him coldly. And how does Pip console himself? With the utterly false belief that Estella is intended for him, that despite how she might flirt and smile elsewhere, her heart will eventually be his. Edward's eyes fall on the following protestation from Pip:

"_You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since - on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be…"_

Here is Edward's heart -- transcribed on the pages of a novel. He laughs at the irony, but it is a laugh that feels brittle. Is this to be his fate, then? To immolate himself upon an altar of love, only to find that the sacrifice is deemed insufficient? His gut aches at the thought, his chest seizes a bit. He fears that he will be physically ill, and at that moment he hears the commotion in the hall as the young women reenter the house. He _cannot_ see her just now – he cannot hide from anyone the desperation and abject fear looming over him. In all honesty, it had never heretofore occurred to him that he might actually be unsuccessful in pursuing Miss Cullen's affections. The panic he felt upon Dorset's death, upon the upending of his whole world feels like nothing in comparison to this moment, when he feels a dawning certainty that his life is to be a tale of unrequited love. He will never get over her, and here in his aunt's drawing room, with the Girl He Loves about to enter, Edward cannot face the idea that she will walk through the door completely composed and confirm his deepest fears. He paints on an expression of haste and quickly makes his way out of the room and down the stairs. The girls immediately cease their lively conversation as the apparition of Edward storming down the stairs impresses itself upon them.

Edward resolutely refuses to make eye contact with Miss Cullen, simply nodding his head in her direction and keeping his gaze on the wall just behind her. He swoops down and kisses Meg quickly on the cheek, faking a smile, and chucking her on the shoulder. As he sweeps past them both, he throws a hasty "Just remembered an errand for my mother – sorry I missed you!" over his shoulder and quickly flees the room.

Even without looking directly at her, Edward's mind has catalogued the deep blue dress Miss Cullen is wearing, her pale ivory skin, the sweet scent of her perfume, the style of her hat, and yes, the surprised but rather composed expression on her face.

Edward is embarrassed upon waking the next morning to find that his thoughts of Miss Cullen had followed him into his dreams. Despite his recent doubts in the efficacy of his religious faith to save him from the horrors of death, Edward remains a staunch perfectionist, and his concept of perfection is strongly informed by the moral upbringing provided by both his mother and the Church. He had been clearly taught that any indulgence in the pleasures of the flesh was not only a quick path to sin and damnation, but also a poor reflection upon his character as a gentleman. While he is certainly aware that most (if not all) of the young men of his acquaintance routinely flout these rules – either through their own efforts or by visiting the seedier portion of town, Edward prides himself that his moral virtue is above reproach. A true Pharisee in mind, Edward adheres to the very strongest interpretation of the moral law simply for the pleasure it gives him to know himself to be wholly without blemish (and more than a bit superior), so it is with a degree of despair and self-loathing that he wakes to find that in his sleep, his body seemed bent on betraying him. He cannot recall the details of his dream – remembers only that She had been in it, and he retains only the sensory impression of a cold fire that leaves him both spent and unsatisfied. His cheeks pink at the very idea that he is capable of conjuring such images, and he pushes them away from himself with all his will and determination. He concentrates instead on eradicating any evidence of his lust, but just as he buttons up his clean brown trousers, Edward realizes that today is his mother's birthday – a day that will culminate in a large celebration, which he expects that Miss Cullen will attend. He swallows loudly, blows out a noisy breath, and refocuses on the task of getting dressed.

The day passes at an agonizing pace for Edward, as he can never seem to make up his mind whether he wants the minutes to fly by or cease their progress. To his chagrin, Edward finds his imagination is growing rather unruly, as it seems determined to dredge up visions of Miss Cullen in rather provocative states of undress at various moments throughout the day. Rather unexpectedly, Edward has taken to meditating on the war, the likelihood of his enlisting in August, or the still unsolved murder of Richard Dorset as a means of escaping the rather relentless feelings of longing and lust leftover from his dream. Unfortunately, repress them as he will, they seem to rise again, and he fears that this new dimension to his attraction to Miss Cullen will only strengthen the torture of being near her without any hope of possessing her.

Following an intimate, family supper, the Masen's home is increasingly packed full of people who have come to wish Edward's mother well. Edward plays the role of 'good boy' as his parents would wish, shaking hands, greeting guests, though dodging the various young women his mother has unsuccessfully dangled before him over the previous year. The press of faces sometimes overwhelms him, particularly because he still finds himself balancing on the edge of a knife – anticipating the moment when he sees Her, but also wishing he could put it off a bit longer, as though there was a way to prepare himself adequately for the task at hand.

In his mind, she always seems to shimmer a bit, but tonight his imagination has not done her justice. As Edward is crossing the threshold from one crowded room into another, he catches a slight whiff of her honey sweet scent, which causes his heart to beat rapidly. He glances around the room quickly, but his considerable height still affords him no glimpse of her deep brown hair or amber colored eyes. Becoming impatient, he moves from room to room, but his continued failure to locate Miss Cullen tempts him to wonder whether he had manufactured the scent of her perfume out of pure longing. But he has not – he makes a second turn through the dining room, which has been cleared out and is occupied by some seven or eight couples dancing, and comes to an abrupt halt.

Miss Cullen is dancing with his father. She is smiling up at him, fully engrossed in their conversation, and Edward's father looks completely entranced. Dazed even. A giggle bubbles up in Edward's throat at the expression on his father's face, but then he sobers as he wonders whether he wears the same ridiculous look whenever he is in Miss Cullen's presence. Probably.

The song comes to an end, and the couples part with polite applause. Over the heads of the room's occupants, Edward makes eye contact with Miss Isabella Cullen, and even that much contact sets a fire blazing in his veins. Flushed and handsome, he strides across the room and seizes his opportunity. His father smiles at him indulgently and passes Miss Cullen's gloved hand into Edward's waiting one, bows to Miss Cullen, and moves towards the room's entrance where, Edward notes, his mother is standing, grinning like a Cheshire cat. As he turns Miss Cullen and begins the waltz the band has struck up, his gaze connects with his mother's, and Edward would like to both grin and grimace at the love and faith and hope swelling in her eyes.

Miss Cullen's musical voice lures his gaze downward, and he grows just a bit dizzy at the view waiting to meet him. Her warm, chocolate hair perfectly frames her angelic face and her light, butterscotch eyes fill him with desire. Focused on the fascinating way her eyelashes dance on her alabaster cheeks when she looks downwards, Edward's peripheral vision cannot help but take in the entrancing way the emerald green of her gown causes her creamy skin to glow. A bit of Tennyson springs to his mind, and without thinking, escapes his lips in a whisper: "She seem'd a part of joyous Spring:/ A gown of grass-green silk she wore…"

Miss Cullen's chin jerks upwards, and her breath seems caught. It seems to Edward that the two of them are alone, even in the press of people and the humming of conversation. His whole heart is full of her, and even if she is his Estella, even if she is the death of him, he wants to pull her close and tell her everything. Spellbound, the final stanza of the poem slips out, telling her precisely how he feels: "A man had given all other bliss,/ And all his worldly worth for this,/ To waste his whole heart in one kiss/ Upon her perfect lips." Too overwhelmed by her nearness, by her sweet scent, by the feel of his hand resting at her perfect waist, Edward cannot even feel embarrassed by his brashness.

The words seem to encircle them, and their dance slows. Both stare at the other's lips, and Edward wishes he could read her mind, wishes he could know what she wants from him. A word, a gesture – anything would suffice if it would only make clear to him how she feels, whether he has any hope of winning her. Her lips part, and he glimpses the slightest hint of a pink tongue darting out to moisten them. It is only with a great assertion of will that he can keep his thoughts of this woman, whom he holds like glass in his hands, pure as she deserves. He closes his eyes briefly, draws in a deep inhalation of her sweet scent, tamps down the growing lust he feels, and opens his eyes to heartbreak. Her lips are upturned just the slightest bit in a smile that can only be classified as pitying, reinforced by the arching of her brows and the depth of compassion coming from her amber eyes.

_God. _He cannot stand the idea of hearing her say it. Of forcing her to put into words the fact that he is just a boy. Or that she has no intention of marrying. Or that she loves another. Whatever it is that causes her to look at him like that – like the feelings that seep out of him in her presence deserve her sympathy but conjure no likeminded flames in her. He swallows with difficulty, jerks his head stiffly in confirmation that the message has been duly received, and then turns away from her and exits the room as quickly as he can.

**A/N: Thanks so much to those who have taken the time to read this. Poor Edward! Are you enjoying the fact that the rules of decorum in the early 20th century make it much easier for Miss Cullen to remain a mystery? Or are you finding her behavior just as perplexing as he does? Drop me a line or come share your theories on the Twilighted thread. **

**I've got a summary of Dickens's _Great Expectations_ and the full text of Tennyson's "Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere" on my LJ page if you're interested. The link is on my profile! **


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Just a semi-short note on the frequency with which my Bella and Edward discuss books: hopefully, it doesn't come across as pretentious that HoS characters are constantly referring to the literature (either poetry or novels) that they're "reading." This tendency comes from two (okay, maybe three) sources: first, the fact is that well-read people in this time period would have talked about literature the way we talk about television, so I'm trying my best to be historically accurate; second, in Chapter 11 of **_**Twilight**_**, Bella tells us some of the topics that Edward raises when it's his turn to ask her questions, specifically, she says, "And books…endlessly books," so I am trying to be as true to canon characteristics of Edward and Bella as possible; last, I'll admit it, I make sense of the world through the books that I read, so perhaps it's natural that the characters I've created do too, that it's something that draws them together. **

**There are multiple literary references in this chapter, and most of them are incidental and can be found explained on my LJ page if you're interested (link on my profile). However, if you're wholly unfamiliar with Victor Hugo's **_**Les Miseràbles**_**, then you'll miss the gravity and significance of the revelations provided by both Bella and Edward. For the purposes of this chapter, you should know that Fantine is a young woman who conceives her daughter, Cosette, out of wedlock, and eventually becomes a prostitute in order to support herself and, more importantly, her family. Cosette is saved from poverty by the angelic Jean Valjean and then becomes the (somewhat uninteresting) object of idolatry to the young and idealistic Marius Pontmercy. (Honestly, if you've never seen the musical, you are missing out.)**

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Edward**

**Chicago, May 1918**

**Chapter 15**

"Edward."

It does not matter that this is the first time she has said his name or that part of Edward wants to weep at the sound of it on her lips. He has already seen the truth in her face, so the words are nothing now.

She moves closer, moves so silently that he notices the change in her position only because he sees her reflection in the misty glass of the conservatory windows. Staring blankly into nothing, into the haggard image of his own brokenness, Edward cannot help but take note of her proximity. But though he notes it intellectually, it changes nothing.

"Edward." It's a whisper this time, even more alluring than before. So much more intimate. So much more crippling. He closes his eyes, wishing he were Odysseus, wishes he could stop up his ears to the sirens' song.

"Please." It's not a question, and despite the word used, not even a request. It rings in Edward's ears like a prayer, and who is he to turn away an angel?

Ever so slowly, he pivots, facing her. He wants to have this conversation with his eyes fastened shut, she's so beautiful, dangerously so.

"I can't—" Isabella Cullen breaks off, now it is she with her eyes closed, and she draws in a deep breath, seeming to fortify herself in some way, "I can't be what you want. What you think I am."

At least she'll pay him the compliment of acknowledging that she understands him, recognizes what it is he wants. "That's not true," he replies, but Edward's voice speaks of defeat, "I just want _you_." His voice breaks on the last word, choked by the emotion he feels welling up inside.

"But you don't. You want who you think I am, _what_ you think I am. And…it's all a lie really." Edward cannot read her emotions – of all the moments when he would be well served by intuitively comprehending what she's feeling, what she's hiding, right now it's most important.

"A _lie_? So you're not brilliant? Not beautiful? Not generous and patient and kind and witty and challenging and frustrating and damn near impossible to read? All that is a lie? To what purpose? To hide the fact that you're actually petty and simpering and superficial, foolish and self-involved? You've done a marvelous job of deceiving me. Congratulations are in order."

She looks stricken, wounded beyond Edward's expectations as he throws compliments at her like daggers. But even as he is left feeling broken and a bit embarrassed, Miss Cullen draws herself up tall and looks him in the eye proudly. "You let Richard's death strip you of your heroic ideals, but you cling to your romantic notions of love: place me on some pedestal, sequestered in some unreachable tower in a tale of courtly love. But, Edward, I'm not worthy of your reverence; I _won't_ accept your worship. If you knew me, knew what I'd done and what I'd been, what I've become, you wouldn't speak to me on the street, let alone—" she stops, simply bows her head in silence.

"You're wrong," his negation rings out strong and sure, but still so naive, "You think I don't know my mind, can't comprehend a world full of ugliness and hate. Think I hide inside of poetry and music because it's safer, more civilized. But I _see_ you. I see the essence of who you are, no matter what you've done or become, and it…it _sings_ to me—"

She makes a noise that is half scoff, half sigh, "You can say that because you imagine my sins to be trifling. You think your love…magnanimous because it can encompass my faults, but assume I refer to skipping a Sunday sermon or perhaps gambling away my pin money on a high stakes game of cards. You do _not_, you _CANNOT_ possibly comprehend the depth of depravity to which you are devoting yourself!"

"Then enlighten me, for God's sake!" The oath slips out of him at a volume and in a tone that surprises them both. They stand opposing one another – Edward drinking in deep breaths of air, and Miss Cullen unnaturally still.

"I can't."

It sounds so final to him, it sounds like giving up, but he's sixteen and in love and still wants so much to believe that love can overcome any and all obstacles, so he says, "I love you."

The silence – it's tangible, feels like the air is filling up with cotton or smoke, and it's clogging his throat. He's brave enough to declare himself, but he can't bring himself to meet her gaze. And even if he could, it's not as though he'd be able to read her face. But still – she hasn't run away, hasn't slapped him for his brazenness.

"You – what?" Her voice seems so small, seems to come from a very far distance, so he gathers up his courage and steps towards her, takes her cool hand in his own. With his other hand, he nudges her chin upwards, waits until her honey gold eyes meet his own piercing green ones.

"I love you. And you're right, I do worship you. I do revere you. And I do place you on the highest pedestal imaginable. But – but I don't want to leave you there. It's so lonely and drafty up there alone," her expression softens just a fragment, and it gives him enough confidence to continue laying his heart at her feet in tribute. "To me, you are the most enticing combination of every heroine of literature, the muse to every poet who ever composed a line worth reading. You are Spenser's Faerie Queen and Tennyson's Lady of Shallot. You are Elizabeth Bennet and Dorothea Brooke and Cosette—"

"NO. No, Edward. I'm not. If anything, I'm…Fantine. I'm sorry—" and with this adamant disavowal of her worth, Miss Isabella Cullen leaves the conservatory, leaves the house, leaves Edward's life.

* * *

Meg delivers the crushing blow, comes in person to tell him that she has gone to Hull House, only to find that Miss Cullen has vacated the premises. Her own eyes are puffy from crying, and so Edward just hugs his cousin tightly, tries not to think at all. Numbness is his entire goal for the whole of the morning, but whatever false-peace he has found is shattered when he is informed of a visitor to see him. For a rash moment, Edward thinks, well he does not think at all so much as _hope_, but those hopes are cut short when a handsome gentleman is shown into the drawing room.

Edward rises, bows formally, and the man returns the greeting. He is just slightly shorter than Edward, and he seems young and full of life. Edward's heart stutters a bit when he finishes assessing the wealth revealed in the man's clothing, and instead turns his focus to the honey gold of the man's eyes.

"Mister Masen? Thank you for agreeing to see me. My name is Carlisle Cullen; I am Isabella's brother."

Edward's good manners are entrenched enough that he makes the proper noises and expressions to indicate his attention, but he is not quite prepared to respond to Mister Cullen's abrupt arrival in his home. Edward simply wants to shout _Where is she? Is she well? Why can't she love me?_ Mister Carlisle Cullen has seated himself in a nearby wing-chair, and his whole being seems to be communicating to Edward an intense feeling of compassion. Unfortunately, that compassion only indicates to Edward that he is to be recipient of very bad news.

"Mister Masen, my sister wrote to me many weeks ago -- I was serving as a surgeon in France, but her letter was such that I felt I must return to her immediately. I was correct in that determination – I find her…changed. I cannot yet determine whether the changes are—well, regardless, she has requested that we leave Chicago immediately, and I have conceded to her wishes. She has not—that is, I do not know the full nature of your relationship with my sister. I do, however, know her, and I trust her judgment. She has asked me to deliver this letter to you—"

Edward collects himself enough to reach his hand out for the missive, but Mister Cullen cuts him off when his face reveals his intention to pepper the young doctor with questions.

"I'm sorry. I will respect her wishes, which is to tell you no more than I have already disclosed. I thank you for your time," at this point, Mister Cullen rises, reaching for his hat and gloves, bowing his head in farewell, "I am glad to have had the opportunity to meet you. I'm sorry that we do not have the leisure to grow better acquainted. Good-bye."

Edward is not quite sufficient to the moment, and only manages to rise fully as Carlisle Cullen is closing the door to the drawing room behind him. Edward stands there for some time, just staring at the door that won't open. It won't open, Isabella Cullen won't enter and he won't have the opportunity to hold her close and he won't press his mouth to her generous pink lips and he won't watch, transfixed, as she laughs in a musical way that sets his blood on fire. It won't. He won't. They won't.

Eventually, he looks down at the letter in his hand. He's never seen her handwriting before, but he recognizes the flowing script as Hers. That feeling of recognition rends his heart a bit more. It is addressed to "Mister Edward Anthony Masen." The formality of the words fall like a rock in his stomach, makes him want to crush the words before he's even read them.

_Mister Masen,_

_Please forgive the presumption on my part in writing to you, unsolicited. The words you spoke last evening circle endlessly through my mind, and I have written a dozen drafts of this letter, but cannot seem to settle on precisely what I wish to say. Or perhaps I have too much to say, but too few words. _

_I am selfish. I am a coward. I am weak and foolish, and I have certainly been petty and self-involved, though I don't think I have ever been guilty of simpering. I have so very many faults, and they are all concealed beneath a mask that I wear, a façade I maintain at the peril of my life – and yours._

_Edward, I cannot tell you all my secrets, and I'm sorry to confess that I do not even wish to – I covet the esteem with which you hold me, though I cannot deserve it. But, Edward, I will tell you one of my secrets, and I fear that will be mightily sufficient to remove me from that lofty pedestal you've erected. I told you that I am a coward, and you will see the truth in it here: I tell you this secret only because I know I shall never see you again, shall never have to face your contempt or, worse, your indifference. I cannot be brave like you – cannot face you as I risk all, but you have here something I have given to no one: my story, though abridged. I share it now, with you, because in some ways, I think you _do _see me, and I cannot decide if that is good or bad._

_I was one of only two surviving children of my parents, and my mother did not long outlive my birth. Shortly after her death, I was sent to live with my maternal aunt, who, after some time, married a widower, a man of wealth and consequence. Although my aunt viewed me as her own daughter, her husband, I could see from the start, did not share her view, and I endured many subtle and intentional slights that, for love of my aunt, I bore in silence. In my sixteenth year, the gentleman's sons returned from Cambridge for a visit. It seems unbelievable to me now, but I was so naïve, so eager to be fallen in love with, that I agreed to a secret engagement with my uncle's eldest son. Wholly believing in the sincerity of this young man's affections, I compromised myself – my virtue, my character. When it was discovered that we were intimate, that we intended to marry, I was summarily thrown out of the house and my lover packed off to some remote relative. I would like to believe that my aunt attempted to contact me, that she sought to shelter me from the hostility of the world even then, but our relationship was entirely severed. The child, which I bore as a reminder of my 'infamy,' died. I grieved for him, but truly, I grieved largely for myself. Abandoned, discarded. My mind revolts at the thought of reliving that hideous period of my history, but I feel compelled to confess to you the very depths to which I sank. I was alone, starving, and for survival I retained only one object with which to barter for food and shelter, for life: myself. Wholly degraded, I fell to pondering whether I ought not to be bartering for death, rather than the half-life I had found. I believe I would not have lasted another hour, had not Carlisle, my brother, lifted me like an angel from the literal ashes of my funeral pyre. Since that moment, Edward, everything has changed. I am reborn, as I can never fully explain to you, but I need you to know that the very qualities for which you hold me in such high regard – they are not inherently mine. The beauty and selflessness you admire so much are not Isabella, they are merely Miss Cullen._

_I beg you to forgive me for burdening you with such a letter – I ask that you forgive me for a very many things, which cannot and will not be numbered. For many years following my disgrace and fall, I blamed a great number of people and railed against the circumstances of my life. Whether it was impetuosity or merely my stubbornness, I know I made a great many mistakes. Knowing you, trusting you has not been one of them._

_With Great Affection,_

_Miss Isabella Cullen_

**A/N: Well? Was that close to what you thought would happen? You can tell me on Twitter, if you like - I've caved and created an account: jackiejones11. Any and all feedback, in whatever form you find it convenient, would be richly appreciated and warmly received.**

**Also, I've posted a rather rough entry for the "To Kill a Cullen" contest entitled "Endure Burning" - if you get a moment, take a look. But be forewarned: it's tragic.**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: My apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. My sincerest thanks to those of you who invest your time in reading this.**

**Chapter 17**

**Edward**

**May, 1918 -Chicago**

You're expecting Edward to bemoan his lot? Shake his fist at heaven and rail about the injustice of the world? Or perhaps you think he will wax poetic about the sound a heart makes when it cracks open and shatters? And maybe he should do either, or both. But he doesn't.

Instead, Edward folds the letter carefully, and then he puts it in the fire. Maybe his hands shake, maybe they don't. Regardless, he walks out of the room without a backward glance. What good would that do, at this point?

And what good will it do to dwell upon the fact that she was right – right in all the worst ways? Right to believe that he was a naïve, little child. Right to think the pedestal he'd crafted was flimsy and fragile. Right to be afraid – worst of all, right to run.

Edward doesn't mope. He doesn't brood. It is more like waking from a dream than anything else. There are occasional moments when he has to remind myself that it is over, she's gone – but mostly he imagines his emotions as a faucet, which he has had to wrench closed. Not even because it's excruciating to think of her, it's just that he cringes to think of his 'sleeping' self – how he must have appeared, mooning over her like that. Grinning like an idiot at any thought of her. Finding ridiculous excuses to put himself in her path. Muttering poetic verse as though it were an aphrodisiac.

Regardless, the enchantment has been lifted, and he has been left to resume his everyday life without a fairy tale ending.

**June, 1918 - Chicago **

He doesn't hate her. Most days, at least. Some days, he supposes the anger he feels welling up inside him comes awfully close to hate. On those days, well, on those days, he mostly keeps to himself if he can. There's no limit to the things which he targets with his hostility – her best qualities, her worst qualities, they're all fodder for his rage. The days when he's angry are still better than the days when he's numb, and those days are far better than the rare moments when he allows himself to contemplate what might have been.

Meg refuses to pretend that all is well, but she also appears hesitant to address the issue head-on, so their conversations are left a bit stilted, inhabited by an awkwardness that is foreign to them. Every topic seems sensitive somehow, swollen and painful to a degree that cannot be ignored. Just now, Meg sits alone at the piano, poking out the notes of a tune they once played to amuse themselves, but there is clearly no amusement in it now. From where Edward is seated, she is in profile, and it occurs to him that she's nearly fourteen. She's already grown several inches since she first introduced him to Miss – well, since the new year. And in that moment, Edward does hate Miss Cullen – hates her for slipping in between Meg and him, and then leaving them, estranged. The anger lights a fire beneath him, propels him across the room and onto the piano bench beside her, where he takes over the keys and begins to improvise something upbeat, though perhaps a bit desperate in its frivolity. In his peripheral vision he can see her wide blue eyes peering into his face, and he knows that she's asking so many things: _Will things be better now? Will YOU be better now? Why did she go? Will she come back? Is your heart broken?_ Though the questions hang there, Edward keeps playing because he doesn't have any answers. Eventually, Meg joins in, and though it's a far cry from their carefree days, it cements them together somehow. As they finish, he pulls her to his side, kisses the top of her head, and hopes like hell that things _will_ be better now.

**July, 1918 – Chicago**

Meg and Edward are reading books again. From the moment on the piano bench, there has been an unspoken agreement between them – to reclaim the pieces of their lives that had come to be associated with Miss Cullen. No more hiding. No more secret moping disguised as stoicism. They ride the trolley about town. Meg continues volunteering at Hull House. And they read, voraciously. Fiction. Nonfiction. Poetry. Drama. They rotate them – the nonfiction they've thrown in for good measure, as they're both dangerously inclined towards idealism. Meg insists that Edward choose first, but she rolls her eyes at him when he picks _Hamlet_. Still, she humors him, and they talk Shakespeare over afternoon tea a week later. Sometimes their reactions vary so widely, Edward wonders whether they are reading the same play before considering whether Meg might be contrary on purpose.

"_Claudius_ is redeemable? You're sure you're talking about the proper character – don't mean Hamlet or Laertes?" Edward sputters and begins to suspect she's merely goading him for the pleasure of watching him react.

"Of course. You are assuming that Hamlet's impressions of his father and uncle are correct, but there's no reason to trust his sense of anything – he's off his rocker half the play. How do you know that his father wasn't just like the Kaiser over in Germany – bullying everyone about? Perhaps Claudius was right to eliminate him."

Edward laughs in disbelief, "Right to commit fratricide and regicide all in one go? With a justification he doesn't even offer in his own mind or prayers? Now you're the one 'off her rocker.'" Meg devolves into giggles.

"Alright, alright – perhaps it's not justifiable, but he must have some good qualities. Look at how the Queen behaves towards him. It drives Hamlet mad that his mother seems so happy married to Claudius, if that is so, how can he be all bad?"

"I am not arguing that he is 'all bad'," Edward says carefully, and Meg loves the earnest look in his eye as he talks to her, treats her as an equal, "I am simply stating that his sins leave him unredeemable, largely because he refuses to loosen his grip on the very temptations that brought him to sin. We cannot redeem people against their will, Meg." He's not thinking of Miss Cullen as he says it, but as this last proclamation leaves his lips, a part of Edward feels the teetering of mental vertigo, sliding towards the precipice of Her. He fights back the thoughts – the ones that wonder whether Isabella Cullen's sins _are_ redeemable, in her mind or in his. "Besides, the question is not whether he _can be_ redeemed, but whether he _is_, and Claudius most certainly is not. Look at how he ends the play, willing to hurt anyone around him in his desperate attempt to 'eliminate' (as you call it) Hamlet."

"Fine, fine. I'm not arguing that Shakespeare redeems Claudius – I had simply stated that I found Shakespeare's portrait of a villain fascinating, in that he was not fully evil. Merely selfish– which, by the by, I would say is true of Hamlet as well, though not to the same degree."

"And do you think that Hamlet's greatest fault?" Edward asks, and a part of him wonders if they are still speaking of Hamlet.

"Certainly not – he's chalk full of them, that moody prince," the little smirk echoed by her quirking eyebrow answers Edward's mental query in the negative.

"So, moodiness, then?"

"Oh, aye, and a tendency to go it alone, to think he has the answer to every dilemma. Look how he keeps secrets, hurting the people – the women in his life. If he'd just tell either of them – Ophelia or Gertrude-what he was burdened with – well, it all might have gone swimmingly. Could have ended as a comedy, really, like _Much Ado About Nothing_ – all the villains arrested and the heroes married off to their true loves."

"Hamlet, the comedy?" Edward asks, trying to determine whether she's teasing him.

She laughs, but grows serious again as she reiterates, "He didn't have to suffer alone." And he knows what she's saying: _YOU don't have to suffer alone_. But what, precisely, is he going to tell her? _The woman you idolize was seduced, ruined, and survived as a quif?_ Not for all the world would he burden Meg with the truth, not to mention that he is far to gentlemanly to consider sharing Miss Cullen's secret with anyone. Truth be told, he wishes he could forget it, himself.

"Hamlet does have friends, Meg, and he depends upon them greatly – he'd not have survived as long as he did without Horatio. Just because they can't save him – it doesn't mean that they've failed," Edward stares into her warm blue eyes, which he finds are filling with unshed tears. He chucks her gently on the chin, flashes a crooked smile at her, but her answering smile is forced. Despite how well he reads her, her next question is unexpected.

"You're leaving next month, aren't you?" It's not an accusation, but the little tear drop hovering on her bottom lashes takes flight, streaking its way down her pale cheek.

"I think so." He wishes he could protect her, could fold her into his side and hide her from the pain of the world, but the last six months have robbed him of any confidence that there are 'safe' places in existence, where pain and violence and death can't find her. He wishes too, rather futilely, that he could make his exit with all the confidence and hope he would have possessed if his father had allowed him to enlist a year ago. It might have made it easier for Meg.

"Why?" It's more of a keening than a question. Edward does fold her into his side, though he's under no illusion that she'll be safe there, but he hopes that the solid bulk of his presence now will give her some courage to face the moment when he's gone.

To be honest, Edward's not even sure. It's all jumbled up in his mind – his ambitions as a soldier, his heartbreak, his sense of justice, his need to prove himself, his gut feeling that this is simply where he needs to go, his aversion to death and his fear of being a coward. He hates the idea of going to war, but he can't deny that the idea of _going_, leaving, vacating this place feels right, necessary.

"Meg," he waits for her breathing to calm, "Meg, I just know that I have to go. I'm sorry." To his surprise, she doesn't renew her weeping, just closes her eyes and rests her head on his shoulder. "I'll come back," the promise is made so quietly, he's not sure it registers, but he means it. He's not leaving with some misplaced intention to hide his pain in martyrdom, he just needs to find something in the bedrock of his self that he can trust again. She squeezes him tighter for a moment, so he supposes that she heard him.

**August , 1918 – Chicago**

His parents and cousins insist upon accompanying him to the train station. He's only going a short distance – up to Fort Sheridan for basic training. But if he would have been happy last year to be seen off with pomp and hoopla, he's far more conscious now that this good-bye might be permanent. The illusions have been shattered, so many that he finds his daily life all too often bumps up against the piercing shards, but there remains within him the conviction that this is the next step. This is _right_. So he hugs them close, whispers words of love into the women's ears, embraces his father with conviction and determination, and steps confidently onto the train car's steps with his haversack over his shoulder. Looking back, he doesn't cry, but the smile he pins on looks false to the ones who know him best. His mother is held upright by the strong arms of his father, and Evangeline and Meg are clutching one another tightly. Last year he might have felt guilty, taking himself from them, might have wondered how they'd manage in his absence. He knows better now – they're tougher than they look, these three women. His chest aches a bit, and he has to admit that it's _four_ women he knows who have convinced him of the hidden strength lying beneath silken skin and warm eyes. The train lurches to life, and he waves once more, then turns determinedly to find a seat and move forward.

**A/N: I don't think it was the fact that I've been ill so often over the last few weeks that delayed this chapter as much as it was the fact that Edward and I are so entirely different, I had a terrible time getting the events out of my head and onto the page. That first portion was just so opposite to how I would have handled things - and yet, I've tried hard to keep the narrative as true to the characters (as I perceive them) as I can.**

**Well, next chapter we're returning to Bella's perspective, so I hope you'll stick around for that. Thank you again, to all of you who read this, and thanks too for the constructive criticism and/or encouragement offered.**

**Last, I have a twitter account now. jackiejones11 - add me if you like. :)**


	18. Chapter 18A

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 18.1**

**Bella**

**May-August, 1918 –Ashland County, WI**

Above her, the trees are swaying with a gentle breeze, and the light that filters through the branches is muted. She tries to lose herself in watching the undulations, both of branch and light. She has been lying here, alone, for hours – long enough to watch the light grow and peak and wane. For a time, after she arrived and lay supine upon the dry, fragrant pine needles, the forest about her hushed – the creatures all too aware that a predator waited among them. But the quiet receded as she maintained her stillness over the hours, and now the forest is full of the chirps and squeaks that accompany the dying daylight, until suddenly they cut off once more.

By the level of noise Carlisle is making, she knows that he is intentionally tromping through the underbrush to give her fair warning of his approach; she girds herself for the conversation about to take place. When he nears her resting place, he does not speak, just lies down beside her in imitation, and the two observe the trees and light together for a time.

Bella is tempted to wait him out, see what his opening move might be, but of the two of them, she knows he is the far more patient one, so she heaves a sigh and says, "I'm sleeping."

After a long pause, he simply states, "Remarkable." He has assumed his "doctor" voice, and it makes her smirk just a bit.

"I am lying here, waiting to sleep."

"Any success?"

"Not yet. But I can't very well sleep when you're here talking to me, can I?" The question that could sound petulant instead comes out teasing, and elicits a little smile from Carlisle.

"That is what big brothers do, I thought: annoy their little sisters when they want to be left alone."

She makes a non-committal sound that resembles "hmmph." She does not elaborate, and he does not press further – just closes his eyes and breathes evenly, as though she has offered a nap as a good suggestion and he is taking her advice. She finally turns her head to look at him directly, quirking an eyebrow and waiting for him to open his eyes.

But when he does, the humor present between them seeps into the earth, and her belly lurches at the overwhelming love and concern welling up in his gaze. That sympathy builds a bridge between them, reminds her of the long years they have spent together – that she's not alone—and unhinges her.

"I love him," she deliberately returns to examining the trees and the growing darkness; it's easier, and she can accept nearly any act of cowardice now that she has cleft herself in two. "I love him and it's stupid – the stupidest thing I've ever done in a very long life, full of poorly judged decisions, Carlisle. He's a boy, for God's sake!" She acknowledges Carlisle's grimace at her word choice, but the dam has broken and she's just going to say how she feels, _entirely_ how she feels, this one time. "He's a child, and yet, not—I can't explain it, to myself even, the way he thinks, sees the world, hopes and longs for things…he's so _alive_. And I'm alive—in a different way—when I am near him. At first, it was so hard, I couldn't understand why he appealed to me—his scent I mean—so _much_ more. And he was so full of arrogance, so proud and just…obnoxious really," her nose scrunches a bit and a flicker of life animates her face as she remembers Edward, "but he could hold his own, and he made me _think_, and somehow obnoxious changed to interesting, which melted into fascinating, which suddenly became love. " A hiss of self-loathing escapes her, "What a sap!" Her voice breaks on that last bit, and she lies there, trying to wrestle the emotions back into their cage, but with little success.

Bella waits for Carlisle to speak – waits for him to pronounce a judgment or perhaps offer a condolence, but he seems to sense that there's more, so he waits too.

"I'm such a fucking coward, Carlisle." This time he withholds the grimace, but even if he didn't, she couldn't stop the torrent of emotion now, "I couldn't do it. Couldn't face him, couldn't watch the infatuation drain right out of him when I told him the truth. Because it would have. I know that. He's many things, but he's not perfect, and he's still a boy, with a boy's dreams and a boy's image of the girl that he wants. And that's not some totty – not some whore who sold herself and was rotting from the inside out before—" Her jaw clenches, and she squeezes her eyes shut as if she can hide from her past that way. "God, I'm not for _him_," and it's a bitter chuckle that escapes her here, "that's obvious in every way, and so here we are. You've had to—and I can't even—it's all I can think about. And I just want to _sleep_! I want to stop thinking about him, about what a damned idiot I've been to even let myself care, and about a boy, of all things!" The musicality of Bella's voice is stretched to its limit, growing shriller with every thought she purges.

Carlisle senses that it's time to speak. "Isabella Marie Cullen," and there's more than a small amount of paternalism in his voice, but he somehow manages not to sound condescending, "you made a mistake. When will you let yourself live?"

She is hoping it's a rhetorical question, but fears she's wrong when he waits patiently for an answer. Damn this man and his unlimited patience!

"_A_ mistake? _A_ mistake. As though there weren't as many mistakes in my past as there are minutes—"

"Now you're being maudlin," his interruption startles her, which she's clever enough to realize was his intention. He resumes in a quiet, but firm voice: "I respect that you are suffering, but Bella, don't throw away the good with the bad. You love him. YOU do. After all this time, after all you've experienced and seen and done and had done to you, Bella, there is something glorious in that simple fact that you _love_ him. So lie out here and wallow if you need to, find some way to 'sleep' if you need to, and of course you know I'll be here if you need me, but don't be afraid to look at yourself and see what love has wrought. It's changed you, Bella, in so many ways you don't even see yet." His finger caresses her cheekbone lightly, and then he's gone, moving with grace and stealth, and leaving Bella to huff in consternation.

**********

They have only been living in this sleepy corner of Wisconsin for a few months, hardly long enough for Bella to stop listening for familiar heartbeats or imagining elusive scents, when trouble comes knocking on their door. Literally.

His name is Demetri. Bella had not met him on either of her visits to Volterra, but it did not matter – he had met Carlisle, and that was enough. He stands on the newly painted wooden porch, swathed in his thick gray cloak, despite the heat. In his handsome face of chiseled marble, Bella wonders whether she can see something more than a reckoning.

The last three months have been agony. Every moment feels wrenched, crooked, broken. No matter how she tries to hide from it, she is forced to acknowledge that Carlisle is correct: she is changed. But far from a glorious transformation, she's left distorted, misshapen, malformed. Bella wants what she cannot have, and it's not even him – underneath and behind that wanting, what she really wants is humanity. She wants some goddess of life and love to acknowledge the power of her attachment, come sprinkle her with living fire and make her new. She's a vampire, for God's sake. If that can happen, why not this? Once, Bella hungered for death and found new life – now all she wants is life, but perhaps it's Death who's found her out at last.

Demetri's appearance at their home is in all ways opposite to Jane's, so long ago. He merely walks up the tree shaded drive, thick boots scuffing the gravel and announcing his presence. His pace is neither humanly slow, nor vampirically fast – he seems to be in no hurry, nor does he dawdle. His knock on the door is firm, and the expression on his face is friendly. He looks at Bella as though they've been long separated.

"Miss Cullen," he says gently in his velvet voice with just a hint of an Eastern European accent, "my name is Demetri. I greet you on behalf of Aro, Caius, and Marcus, my masters." His bow is formal, but the smile on his face is almost flirtatious.

"Indeed – I suppose it depends upon your purpose here, whether I invite you in or not," Bella can't help it – she knows she's being unconscionably rude, but he's declared his allegiance to the Volturi, who wouldn't feel suspicious?

His smile only grows wider, "You are just as he said you would be – Aro. 'Fiery' he warned me," and his smile grows just a bit lascivious. "But you see that I come alone, Miss Cullen, I come only to talk and to relay a message," his hands gesticulate outwards, as though inviting her to look around and confirm his position of weakness.

Carlisle speaks from behind Bella's shoulder, and it's the first time Demetri takes his eyes off of her. His gaze seems proprietary, or desperate in some way that makes Bella's gut twitch. "Demetri! Welcome, my friend! Please, come in." Carlisle plays host as Bella begrudgingly makes room for the gray-clad messenger to enter. These three would be just as comfortable on the porch, or out in the yard, but Carlisle intentionally maintains these rituals of hospitality.

"Carlisle, I greet you in the name of my masters. Well do I remember how you cared for me after the battle of Bengal. I hope I find you well?" There is just the slightest hint of surprise in that last question, it seems to Bella – as though these 'real' vampires can't quite believe that Carlisle continues to persist in his 'strange' eating habits. The skepticism makes her bristle in indignation, but there's little she can do but glower at their uninvited guest.

"Indeed, we are both quite well, as you can see. What brings you here?" Bella controls her expression, but her brow quirks just a bit at that – it's rather direct for Carlisle. He must be feeling anxious as to Demetri's purpose.

Demetri's gaze flicks to Bella briefly, and it seems to be sizing her up, daring her in some way, but he quickly returns to Carlisle, answering in a respectful tone, "My masters have sent me to _request_ that Miss Cullen accompany me back to Volterra. A situation seems to be developing that gives them great concern. They believe Miss Cullen to be uniquely suited to assist them in keeping the peace." Once again his deep crimson eyes flick to Bella's, and she reads his tone to imply some doubt as to what she might have to offer that could be so important.

Bella can't help it – she huffs just a bit in indignation, fights the urge to show him precisely what she can do. Carlisle's hand comes to rest gently on her shoulder, centers her, reminds her that she still has things – people- to lose. And with that thought, Bella suddenly finds herself on the losing end of this battle – not to mention that she's overwhelmingly grateful that the Volturi know nothing of Edward Masen.

Carlisle turns to Bella, seems to want to discuss this, negotiate with this Volturi representative in some way, but he doesn't comprehend – Bella _cannot_ lose him. She can't risk him. They are standing half a world away from Volterra, but Carlisle is still their hostage because they know that she would do anything, give anything to keep him safe.

"I'll go." It's so bitter – these words, this knowledge, this realization that she's figuratively back on that bed in that musty old room, saying yes when she wants to say no. Bella raises her chin, puts on a brave face for Carlisle and smiles falsely at Demetri. "It's alright," she promises – maybe herself, but no one really believes her.

**A/N: Many warm thanks for your patience in waiting for this chapter. My RL has thrown me for a loop this last week or so - it makes me appreciate this fandom even more, as a place I can hide for just a bit and catch my breath. In gratitude for your encouragement (Cindy and Books, especially - you guys rock my world) and continued feedback, I have something a bit more tangible than my vociferous thanks: I've intercepted correspondence from Edward while in boot camp, so you'll get a little addendum to chap 18 mid-week. Blessings!**


	19. Chapter 18B

**A/N: As I mentioned in my last chapter, I'll be posting a little "thank you" in the form of Edward's correspondence home. I know some readers prefer not to bounce around in their POVs so often - you should be able to ignore these chapter supplements and then just read them all at once, if you like. I'll be posting the full chapters (BPOV) on Sundays, the letters on Thursdays.**

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 18.2**

_August 5, 1918_

_Dear Meggie,_

_Fort Sheridan is swell. Many thanks for the letter and the warm greetings from home. I don't know how you can miss me yet – I've not been gone long enough, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same. I laughed when I saw the book you'd enclosed – don't think I'll have much time for reading here. They keep us pretty busy, and I'm earning my keep. Drilling mostly, trying to get us up to scratch, I suppose. Still, I've read _Frankenstein_ before, so if you enclose your thoughts in the next letter, I'll do my best to hold my own. Shelley's not my favorite writer (feel free to send me some Tennyson), but the novel raises some interesting questions. I won't say more just now – otherwise, you'd be tempted to argue just for the sake of being contrary, regardless of what you really think._

_The boys here are awfully nice – they don't seem too keen on waiting around (in a hurry to get at the 'Krauts,' they say) – still, what's the rush, I wonder? Of course, I keep that opinion to myself. I try not to think too much (rolling your eyes is very unladylike!), but I can't help but fear that there's a man walking around out there somewhere, living his life, breathing in air and eating his supper, and that man will be dead at some point in the future because of me. Honestly, I don't know if I can kill a man, Megs, but I don't know if I can avoid it, either. Sorry - Awfully dark, but there's not much here to keep my thoughts from straying to the morbid places. Just thoughts of you and Mother and Father – be sure to give them my love, along with Evangeline and your parents. I'll write again just as soon as I can._

_Affectionately,_

_Edward_


	20. Chapter 19A

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 19.A**

**Bella**

**August, 1918 – Volterra, Italy**

Aro greets Bella with the courtliness appropriate to a visiting dignitary. The Queen of Sheba, perhaps. Marcus lounges in his seat, while Caius grips the arms of his throne possessively. Bella cannot help but sneak a quick glance around, feels a little surprised at recognizing none of the guard present today. The pale faces fade into the background of various shades of gray.

"My dearest Isabella, truly, a wish come true!" His eager steps lead him to the center of the room, where he surprises Bella, enfolding her in a tight embrace. It takes every ounce of self-control she possesses not to slip into a defensive crouch. The best she can manage is to remain mute, stubbornly refusing to reciprocate the gesture of affection. He pulls back his torso, but keeps her clasped to him so uncomfortably close. A hiss of hostility threatens to bubble up from deep inside, particularly as his physical proximity makes it all too clear exactly how excited he feels about Bella's presence. Unable to restrain the growing panic welling up, she has to move, take control, even for a moment. She pastes on a fairly believable smile, kisses his cheeks quickly in greeting, and moves to bow towards his fellow despots.

Caius inclines his head regally, but Marcus continues to gaze inward to the exclusion of all that surrounds him. Aro comes to stand beside Bella, one arm drapes over her shoulders, clasps her tightly to his side. His smile is so wide, and his eyes are so bright. Bella has never been so terrified of someone in her life, mostly because she wonders whether there is anything she would not do, if it would only keep that maniacal smile from landing on Carlisle.

He turns her to face him, taking her hands in his own, and looks positively giddy to be bestowing upon Bella some very great honor as he says, "We need your help." He says it as a child might announce that dessert is being served. Obviously he expects her to leap at an opportunity to ingratiate herself. Bella wonders briefly whether Aro ever finds the sycophantic behavior of the world's vampires stifling.

She decides to find out. Bella allows an eyebrow to arch critically, communicating an emotion she doubts Aro has witnessed for some time: disdain. His expression hardens, but his eyes ignite in a way that she finds disturbing. She can practically hear Carlisle's voice in her head, admonishing her for doing anything that might goad Aro into displeasure.

"Isabella, my darling, while your wit and vivacity are endlessly enchanting, the world is in need of your very unique talent. Will you listen to what I have to say?" This last part, because it is spoken as a genuine question – one to which he does not consider the answer a foregone conclusion – catches her attention. Aro seems to sense as much, as he continues in a tone that draws a curtain around them, verbally. He is not performing, not acting the part of the oligarch now, and it makes Bella all the more tense. "Isabella, you know the law we enforce, you know the price that must be paid for breaking it."

He pauses there, and she nearly dies a second time at the fluttering thought that he might actually know of Edward, might be threatening his life. The expression on his face is so enigmatic; Bella cannot look at it anymore. She closes her eyes, futilely wishes herself miles away.

"We tolerate your decision to live among the humans, and Carlisle's too," he places just enough emphasis upon Carlisle's name to indicate precisely how serious this conversation might become, "because we trust you: to remain inconspicuous, and so you have done. However, a growing menace in the East necessitates that I trouble you, pluck you from your frivolity and oblige your service to your true race."

It is Aro's turn to quirk a sardonic eyebrow, as he gives Bella an opening to bristle at his choice of label for her altruism. Though her eyes fly open at his statement, she refuses to rise to his baiting, grips hard to the desire to tell him precisely where he can put his _frivolity_. She holds Carlisle's face in her mind's eye, it is sufficient to help her hold her tongue.

Aro appears almost disappointed, but assumes a Voice of Importance and continues, "Isabella, the Western world is embroiled in a pointless war that will accomplish little more than the spilling of delicious lifeblood." The vampires in attendance apparently recognize the signs that indicate they are Aro's intended audience. At his declaration, they murmur in agreement – regret that so much blood should be wasted, rather than enjoyed. It makes Bella want to spit, but miraculously remains silent. "However, with the humans' eyes fixed on Europe, the vampires in the East are growing restive. Or, one in particular, whom, it appears, may possess a rather remarkable and…dangerous gift."

He pauses, and apparently the audience chamber's undivided attention is insufficient: he waits for Bella to offer a response. She complies, "Dangerous – how?"

"We have heard rumors of a plague, a pestilence. The humans in the far East are dying at an alarming rate. In short, panic is spreading and such a high concentration of dead warrants some investigation on our part – it is precisely the conditions that we saw break out in the southern portion of North America not long ago. We suspect an army of vampires may be growing, feeding indiscreetly, endangering our world."

In the pause that follows, Bella tries to clarify precisely what her role is here: "But you squelched that uprising in the Southwest, how is this situation different?"

His smile is almost proud, "Yes, precisely. It appears on the surface exactly the same, but when we sent a small contingent of the guard to look more closely, they failed to report back." His tone grows brittle with repressed anger, "After a short time, it seemed prudent to send a more powerful force to quell any resistance. Indirect evidence suggests that the humans continue to die, though they continue to believe it a virulent strain of illness. I believe you will recall the rather potent effect of Jane's gift?"

The pause here seems rather sadistic to her, but he seems determined to remind Bella of exactly what she has to lose. She nods, minutely.

"Jane, Alec, Felix, and a rather talented corp of guards set out for the region north of the Honan province in China. That was nearly four months ago. Demetri, whom you know, has the gift of tracking – he can sense a tugging in the direction of his quarry. He confirms that Jane and Alec live, but if they are unable to return to us, have been bested in some way – well, then we face an opponent of significant power."

Bella wonders how to ask the question that is bubbling up inside her without making her situation worse. Finally, she chooses brevity, simply raises her eyes questioningly and asks, "We?"

Rather than offending Aro, he seems tickled by her willingness to challenge him. And in the corner of her multi-faceted mind, that really pisses her off. Bella doesn't want to intrigue or entertain or attract him in any way, but she also knows that she can only channel Carlisle's wisdom and discernment for very short periods of time, her own rashness tends to reassert itself quickly.

"WE, indeed, darling. You may feel distaste for our choice of diet, but we, the Volturi, are the voice of restraint in the vampire world. Think what would happen to your precious humans if vampires slaked their thirst at every whim. If we stalked their streets openly, chaos would ensue.

"Chaos is something neither you nor I would appreciate, though perhaps for diverse reasons. What we can agree upon is that chaos is dangerous to the very fabric of civilization. I believe we both place a very high value on the continuance of the human civilization. Literature, art, music, architecture – in essence, _learning_. You would fight for these things, yes? Allow me to assure you that if Volterra is in danger, these too are in jeopardy."

Stillness reigns in the audience chamber, and a cold fear grips Bella's heart. She detests the idea of feeling gratitude towards the Volturi, but Aro's argument is compelling. Does it matter if she loathes him, if he is, indeed, the lesser of two evils? Though Bella is clever enough to retain her misgivings regarding his motive for choosing her as his emissary, she recognizes that in this, they may be uncomfortable allies. "What are you asking of me, exactly?"

"Go with Demetri. He will take you as far as he can, though I wish him to return to us instantly if he senses danger – we cannot afford to lose him." He merely shrugs when the look in Bella's eyes registers the implication: she, on the other hand, is dispensable. "Isabella, my darling, I do not anticipate that you will be in any danger – the menace must be supernatural in nature, to imprison my dearest ones in this way. You, I hazard to guess, are likely impervious, may even, by the very nature of your gift, turn the danger in upon itself. I wish I could tell you precisely what it is you face, but, you see – that is the predicament: anytime I send someone close enough to the area to investigate, they fail to report back. But, my dear, you are so talented, so uniquely gifted and protected, I trust that you will succeed where all others have proved ineffectual."

He squeezes Bella's hands affectionately. She wonders briefly if he actually believes the condescending swill he is serving up. That thought leads her to wonder whether it bothers him that he cannot read her mind, know whether _she_ believes it. The reminder of Aro's limitations bolsters her confidence, but also underscores the fact that her uniqueness makes her a potential target of his suspicion and malice. Bella's lightning quick mind tallies the risks and potential benefits of having the Volturi in her debt, determines there's practically no way to refuse, and determines to act on her own terms.

She stands tall, subtly pulling her hands from his grasp, and delivers her answer to the room as a whole: "I will go. I will travel to the East and discover what has ensnared your 'dearest ones,'" (she can't help herself, she has to infuse this term with all the loathing and contempt she feels for Jane and Aro's other minions, but moves forward quickly before too much offense can be taken, "I will send you word regarding the nature of the threat – and, if it is in my power and _I _deem it necessary, I will use my talent to render it moot. But I want to be clear: I am not the Volturi's pet, nor am I your weapon. I act upon my own will – because you are correct, I do value human life, and if one of our kind has transgressed our laws and endangers the human world, I cannot sit idly by. If, when I uncover the source, I determine that no law has been broken, I will _not_ interfere." Though Caius hissed menacingly, Aro seemed to accept these terms. Bella shook his hand, nodded perfunctorily in the direction of the other two leaders, stalked confidently towards the door, not even pausing as she called Demetri's name in the same manner that a master might call its most useful hound.

**A/N: There's a tiny Pride and Prejudice reference embedded up there – did you catch it? If not, no worries – it just means you probably haven't seen the BBC production quite enough. Also, I want to express a good deal of gratitude to the girls on A Different Forest – a recent discussion on the necessity of secrecy for the Vamps in the Twilight saga greatly informed my thoughts on the subject, which are synthesized (to some extent – I mean, it's not like Aro's going to lay all his cards on the table, right?) above. If you're not a part of that community, you're missing out. Come join us!**

**Lately, I've been self-medicating with fanfic, so I want to tell you that I'm loving "The Weight of Words" by GeorgieGirl and "Breaking News" by WriteOnTime, both of which are on my Favorite Stories list. **

**Constructive criticism, predictions, encouragement, and just about anything else is so welcome – give me a chance to thank you for reading. Also, I'll be back on Thursday with another of Edward's letters home. **** Blessings!**


	21. Chapter 19B

**Chapter 19.B**

_August 21, 1918_

_Dearest Megs,_

_I am sorry that it has taken me so long to write back to you. Things here for me have been rather taxing – but more about that later. First, I want to be sure to respond to your letter. I enjoyed reading your thoughts about Shelley's novel, though it made me wish for the days when we could sit side by side and argue more effectively. As it is, I will content myself in persuasively refuting your rather unorthodox ideas and trust that you will see the error of your ways (though you've never done that to date). _

_Shelley's novel is a gothic thriller – and only a mediocre one at that - but it is clear from your letter that it's challenged you to consider ideas you'd never before questioned. Setting aside the complete clap-trap that is her scientific explanation (or lack thereof) for the reanimation of organic life, I will contend that her sentimentality gets the better of her (and you). Frankenstein's creature is merely a patchwork of limbs and organs, robbed from the bodies of those to whom God had rightfully bestowed them. Yet, you wonder, "How can Viktor be so obtuse as to lack compassion on a soul who clearly feels and suffers just, if not more, than he does?" Meg, I rather wonder that you can make such a claim – first, the logic here is rather specious: are you suggesting that the ability to feel pain is the measure of a living organism's possession of a soul? Do you see no difference between humanity and all other living, sentient beings, then? Second, for a human body (cobbled together or completely whole) to retain its soul after being severed from life would be to undermine every precept of eternity into which you have been baptized and claimed to profess. If we, as men, may bestow a unique soul upon a lump of clay, what need have we of God? And though this year has tried my faith sorely, Meg, I still cling to the belief that there is a heaven and a Creator in whose judgment we all will stand. I dread the day when my knowledge of death may encompass more experience than theory, and I pray that day never arrives for you, dear cousin, but until my eyes have seen and my ears have heard otherwise, I will continue to believe as I do: our souls are what set us apart from all other life, and that spark of divinity is quick to flee the flesh in which it is housed once death claims the husk. I can think of no greater torment than the idea of the soul imprisoned in the body once it is dead – let us pray you are wrong, cousin. Now, as for your implication that some passing similarities might be found between myself and Viktor Frankenstein – I smile as I say that I choose not to understand you. I do not recall whether Viktor is described as handsome, and perhaps he ought to be deemed rather brilliant, but if you intend some oblique criticism you will need to be more explicit in your next missive. _

_I am enclosing a new address to which you will need to direct your future correspondence. You'll note that I'm being transferred up to New York: I've volunteered for the Army Ambulance Corp – they're training me to run the machines up north and will be shipping me out soon. Ironic that I'm likely to arrive across the pond before my compatriots here at Sheridan, but at least I'll not be fighting. I don't know when I'll have the chance to write next, Meggie, so don't fret if some time passes before I can get word to you. _

_I'm sorry to hear that my aunt has been ill – I hope that you'll be able to write back and tell me that she is on the mend. She's such a formidable force – I actually have trouble imagining her bedridden. I hope that caring for her has not been too difficult upon you or Evangeline. Be sure to give my love to each of them, and to Mother and Father too, but save the lion's share for yourself._

_As Ever,_

_Edward_


	22. Chapter 20A

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 20.A**

_November 1, 1918_

_Dearest Meg,_

_I'm afraid you must not have received my last letter - that, or perhaps you have already written back, and it has been misplaced on its long journey to France. The boys here in the field assure me that it often happens – lost, misdirected, or simply delayed, they tell me not to worry that I've heard nothing from home since arriving here in September. Some of them tease me that I must have a sweetheart I'm missing – the way I look at the mail truck when it arrives. I suppose I do look a bit forlorn when my name's not called in the mess each time, but I cannott shake this feeling of trepidation. My logical side wants to debate the probability of all letters – from both you and Mother – going astray, but I suppose I have seen enough of this war in the short time I've been here to know that logic is sometimes entirely absent. But even that reminder fails to hearten me, if I'm entirely honest._

_I've not been entirely honest in a great while, Meg._

_Write soon and tell me you're well._

_Edward_


	23. Chapter 20B

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 20.B**

**Bella**

**November, 1918 – Russia**

Regardless of Demetri's objections, Bella insists on stopping frequently on their journey eastward: in cities, towns, or in between, mixing amongst the people and hoping to pick up any rumors that might be useful. The two vampires travel light, wearing the threadbare clothes of Russia's poorer inhabitants, and the roads are far from empty as civil war generates desperation and countless refugees. Two more homeless travelers in the chaos and upheaval are quite inconspicuous, particularly when one of their number is a native of the land. Demetri's accent is better than good, and the comfort he seems to exhibit here is markedly greater than the aloof haughtiness he had embodied while they traveled through Italy.

"You were born here." It is an observation, rather than a question.

"In Russia, Miss Cullen? Indeed," he winks at her, but he does not elaborate, simply tugs his collar up further and rubs his hands together, as though he were cold. It is the wink that freezes her from the inside – he may not be her direct enemy, but he still represents danger, and so she swallows the curiosity she feels and concentrates, instead, on the young mother trudging along about ten yards before them, laden with three young children, only one of them old enough to walk.

The woman is too careworn to turn away a kind stranger's offer of help, and so she allows Bella to carry her goods, previously tied to her back. Bella knows better than to offer to hold either of the children – the young babe screaming at the mother's breast or the dirty little boy clinging to his raggedly dressed sister. The woman may not be superstitious enough to recognize Bella as vampire, but her maternal instincts are honed enough to sense danger if it leans too close to her children. Bella is glad to simply lighten the woman's load, and surreptitiously slips a few coins into the roll of bedding and clothes as the small party walk amongst the outlying buildings of a small hamlet. All the while, Demetri has walked at a distance, observing Bella's actions, wearing a look of forbearance. As Bella returns the goods to the woman, they converse for a moment, sharing what news they have heard. The woman crosses herself quickly when Bella mentions the pestilence, though she seems to believe it a blight from God, sent as a scourge for their sins. She has heard nothing from Russia's southeastern border. Bella thanks her, wishes her well, and moves to rejoin her reluctant companion. Demetri seems unsurprised that Bella has gleaned nothing of use; after all, it has been months that they have been traveling at a snail's pace without discovering anything useful.

Bella's defensive hostility quickens when she interprets his posture as impatient. She hates feeling as though she needs to justify herself to anyone, but particularly to the hand of the Volturi. "Well? Anyone nearby we should consult?" she asks, her tone full of hauteur that is more bluff than true arrogance. Demetri understands that by 'anyone,' Bella means of the vampiric variety. Bella feels almost as uncomfortable with Demetri's gift as he does with hers, and any acknowledgement that he is more than a bodyguard leaves her acting cranky and difficult. Demetri's talent works on two levels: he can track anything or anyone (except Bella) with whom he has come into contact, but he can also sense proximity for those of their kind, friend and stranger alike. And though this talent ought to be rather invaluable, they nevertheless have been able to glean next to nothing in regards to whatever 'nefarious' plot is brewing in the Honan province of China.

"Alas, Miss Cullen, we seem to be pitifully outnumbered," he makes a grand, circular gesture towards to the thirty or so humans inhabiting this struggling corner of civilization, "Whatever shall we do?" Bella turns her back on him and continues to imitate the exhausted trudge that would be expected of her after such a journey. She takes a perverse satisfaction in imposing such limitations on her companion.

Indeed, for Bella, the best part of the journey is knowing that the Volturi _need her_, and this allows her to make one very large demand on her escort: no human blood. They hunt game together, and though Demetri's frequent complaints are tiresome, they never come close to outweighing the delight she feels in watching his deep red eyes fade to orange and then take on an amber hue. Carlisle would not approve. He would argue that her blackmailing Demetri into submitting to her diet is an unconscionable infringement upon his free will. And he would be right. But there is just too much satisfaction involved in the experience – the assertion of Bella's will over his- it's a heady thing. So, Bella chooses to blatantly ignore the Carlisle-like voice that asks her why she would wish to behave in a way that makes her resemble the very people who have hurt her most. Instead, Bella concentrates on the justification that, if it were up to the Volturi, she would either be dead or one of them – this idea goes a long way towards inoculating her from any pity she might feel for Demetri's forced abstention from human blood. In point of fact, she may have been taking her time in traveling eastward so as to extend Demetri's suffering. Obviously, she is the lesser of the two Cullen siblings.

At daybreak, the two vampires are alone on a cold stretch of road, twisting through overgrown brambles. For the last hour, Demetri has been childishly peppering Bella with importunate queries, all of which Bella has ignored. Now he is jogging backwards before Bella, challenging her with both an insolent smile and an obsequious speech: "If Miss Isabella Cullen will grant me a great favor, her humble guide requests the opportunity to consult with her on her intentions for the evening's repast."

If bending Demetri to her will is the highlight of this journey for Bella, it has taken some time to acknowledge the most painful aspect of their constant proximity: she finds him surprisingly likeable, in spite of everything - their contrasting world views, their allegiances, their educations, their _lives_, and most especially her determination to loathe him. At first, she simply disregarded him, tolerated him, but after several months of traipsing through countryside and urban slums, she has to begrudgingly admit that she finds him droll or even, on occasion, entertaining.

"If my guide were so very humble, he would, no doubt, wait patiently for my orders; as he obviously merely feigns humility so as to congratulate himself on his great wit, I find I have no favors to grant," and with this saucy reply, Isabella Cullen takes off running. Bella exalts in the discovery that she runs rather faster than Demetri, but as her lead stretches over the miles and she is distracted by the very rare feeling of exuberance she allows herself, it takes just a split second too long for Bella to realize that she has run into a massacre.

Pulling up short, Bella feels her muscles coil tightly, hauling her into a defensive crouch. A moment is all that it takes to absorb the various points of danger before her. Blood paints the dirty road a muddy red, seeps noisily from the freshly killed, but still-to-be-drained corpses of Russian soldiers littering the ground. At least thirty, Bella's mind catalogues. But what it focuses on more acutely are the crimson eyes and fierce snarls directed at her from the two vicious looking vampires crouched before her. Not all of the humans are dead, but they are all suffering and relatively incapacitated. It is also clear that those who have been drained of their life-blood were toyed with – none of the deaths before her were merciful or quick. That realization and resulting disgust is sufficient to push Bella into her own battle madness, even in the midst of the cloying scent of human blood.

The vampires before her are nearly identical – tall and broad shouldered, thickly muscled and filthy. The brutality of their kills and the instinctive hostility in their countenances bespeak their innate savagery – here are vampires of the worst sort: parasites who take and give nothing back, predators who delight in death. What is surprisingly worse than their threat of violence is the moment both simultaneously stand up, chuckling. They speak to one another in a guttural language unknown to Bella, but the message is clear: she is merely a jest to them, or perhaps a tasty morsel to enjoy dismantling for dessert. Rage consumes her.

She hisses, ready to spring, wondering where Demetri has gone, and whether he provoked her into that run in order to put her in danger in this frosty glade. He had to have sensed their presence, yes? The strangers move in a slow, calculating arc, each mirroring the other, staying equidistant from Bella's angry form. They may consider her of little danger to themselves, but she offers greater sport than the broken bodies lying at their feet. In point of fact, the vampire on Bella's right steps on a fallen soldier's leg, snapping it beneath his foot carelessly, and the poor man lurches out of unconsciousness, filling the glade with the sound of suffering.

In that instant, the vampires move with tremendous speed, and the echoes of the man's shrill cries are drowned by the crash of immortal bodies against one another. Bella is fast, but the vampire on her left is faster, is able to grab her ankle, spin her into the arms of the other one, though she claws and tears and tries to bite. Manhandled to the ground, her arms are pinned behind her and a heavy knee grinds into her back. It's not the first time she has been knocked around, but she goes almost out of her head with panic and rage that it can happen to her _still_. She loses touch with reality, cannot focus on the multitude of stimuli assaulting her senses. There is noise – laughter, more talking between the two men, more screaming from the living soldiers. There is pain – though she tries to draw the curtain on her mind, step away from her body as she had once been so adept at doing, she fails, cannot help but register the fierce fire as vampire teeth sever the fingers of first her right hand, then move to her left. She is wholly consumed by the unbearable sense of fiery loss that seems to pulse from each part of her that is sheared off. Her fingers are moving. Towards her. Clawing, wriggling, squirming their way closer. There is a horror in watching it take place that transcends everything she has heretofore experienced in her supernatural life; this, more than anything else, brings home just how much she is Other.

And other bits of her are now missing, pieces torn from biceps and calves, thighs and back. As if these two barbarians could find sustenance in her granite flesh, they delight in wounding her. In her multifaceted mind, she cannot escape from their horrific repast, but she can think of many other things as well, like how she will miss Carlisle's excitement over new scientific discoveries, and why Aro would bother to fabricate such an elaborate ruse if all he wanted was her extinction, and at the very edge of her mind, she lets herself imagine Edward – that gob smacked look on his face when he met her for the first time. Eyes open, Bella wishes she could close her ears the way she can close her eyes, but is grateful that she cannot understand the crude banter going on above her. However, if she could stop up her ears, then she would not have known that Demetri's arrival is far from peaceable.

Just as one of the sadistic vampires tears the hem of Bella's skirt, putting his hand on her ass and making it clear that his appetite is, in fact, rapacious, the sudden silence of his companion alerts him to his danger. Bella is kicked viciously to the side, even as Demetri tears the head off one brother, leaps from the vampire's back, and lands a mighty kick in the abdomen of the second. The clash of immortal limbs engaged in battle again fills the glade, though Bella can do little more than listen. She is in shock, staring numbly at the mound of dirt lying before her eyes, partly covering her still-moving, alabaster fingers. Ribs cracked, bones broken, Bella cannot consciously follow the to and fro of the battle behind her; she settles for closing her eyes, borrowing a bit of peace from the memory of Carlisle and her, lying under the trees, pretending to sleep.

It's the sound of a match being struck that pulls her to full awareness. Injured and bleeding, in a manner of speaking, the sound is pregnant with fear.

"Miss Cullen? Isabella, I know you can hear me," Demetri is leaning over her, staring at her intently. She wants to embrace him and pummel him senseless all at once, this hero-come-lately. "Please, lie still, I'm going to retrieve…well, just lie still. I'm going to help you."

If Bella thought watching her digits dance towards her in the dirt was odd, the sensation is topped when Demetri sets her bones in place, then holds her stump of a hand out and they bear witness to her fingers' strange homecoming. She stares at her hands, restored to wholeness, though each finger now bears an almost imperceptible ring of scar tissue. Her fists, held out before her, flex almost of their own accord, seem to be celebrating their restoration. Her flesh seems to yearn for wholeness, there's no question of which parts go where, just the application of pressure and watching her tissue mend itself. But the internal injuries are slower to recover, and Bella aches in a way she has not known for nearly a hundred years. When she attempts to stand, her legs give out, and she experiences another aspect of her mortal self that she would just as soon forget: weakness. She's wobbly and shaking, and it reminds her all to closely to the feeling of starvation.

Demetri crouches before her, and she wants to believe that it's real concern etching his face. They both speak at the same moment, her thanks interrupting his apology. There is an awkwardness that lies between them now that is new and difficult to navigate.

"Miss Cullen–"

She hates that his voice is soft, resents that he sees her as fragile now, when that is not supposed to be a part of _this _life.

"Demetri—"

He cuts her off, before she can reprove him.

"Dima," his voice is whisper soft, but she has no trouble hearing him.

"What?" genuine confusion clouds her face.

"Dima – it is what my friends used to call me. You may call me this, if you wish," she refuses to see the vulnerability she fears will be perching in his gaze, so she simply closes her eyes and nods weakly.

"Bella. You may call me Bella." And if she hates his vulnerability, she loathes her own, feels as though she's handing power over to him in some magical way, revealing her 'true' name. Still, he saved her life. Can she honestly expect him to call her anything but Bella, after all that they've endured today?

"Bella, then," and she looks up now because his voice is urgent with a kind of nervousness, "I am afraid that these pieces of filth were not alone – I can sense several more vampires, headed this way I believe, alerted by the smoke, no doubt," Bella follows his gaze over his shoulder to the crackling pyre issuing a thick purple cloud. His words sink in, tinting her eyesight red again, but even that alertness for battle flickers and fades. She is not recovered sufficiently, a fact that Demetri seems loathe to address. Finally, he looks her square in the face and says, "Bella, you cannot defend yourself, and I may not fare as well as I did when I had the advantage of surprise. Please, you must feed," and with this extremely logical statement, he holds up to her the body of a dead soldier.

* * *

**A/N: I want to give a sincere thanks to any of you who might still be reading. As I've shared with those who inquired, my toddler was recently diagnosed with a significant learning delay, so the last few months have been spent lining up doctors appointments and navigating our state's special needs resources (read: dealing with red tape and lack of funding). That's left me with little time and even less creativity. The summer is here, though, and I'm looking forward to some regeneration (crossing fingers). Anyhow, thanks for sticking with it; I will not abandon this story, and I'm grateful to have such loyal readers.**

**I also need to give special thanks to CindyWindy (who pre-read this chapter) and Cornel81 (who took me seriously when I asked for constructive criticism). You are both so fantastic. I mean it.**

**Okay, that's it - let me know what you think, if you get a chance! :) jackiejones**


	24. Chapter 21A

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight; no copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 21.A

**Bella**

**November, 1918 – Russia & China**

"What?" Bella asks, hoping that she has misunderstood his gesture. He cannot be suggesting what he appears to be suggesting.

"Bella, this soldier is dead. It was not at your hand. There is no reason for you to abstain – would you have him die for nothing?" He sounds so rational. For a moment Bella feels like Milton's Eve, wonders if it is possible to argue with the Devil – he always seems so reasonable, no matter how wrong.

"Dima, I won't." His expression of sadness is present before she can even finish her statement. He understands. Bella wants to say that she _cannot_ – that her gut revolts at the very thought of human blood, or that her convictions run so deeply that the temptation is impotent. Not so. She clings to the very edge of her beliefs, holding tight only to the memory of Carlisle's face, the scars on Josephine's burned arms, and yes, the surprised pleasure on Edward's face that moment in the trolley, when she used gravity as an excuse to touch him. So, while a part of Bella, the part willing to do anything to survive, is sorely tempted, she exerts every ounce of determination and resolutely holds those three images in her mind's eye. She shakes her head, no.

Without breaking eye contact, Demetri sinks his teeth into the dead man's neck and drinks. Bella wants to close her eyes; she wants to cry, but she simply watches. He sets the exsanguinated corpse down gently, even straightens the man's coat before he rises, nods mutely, then turns to face the west. She cannot hear them yet, but she trusts Dima's gift, expects that the other vampires will arrive from that direction. It does not go unnoticed that Dima has situated himself directly between danger and herself.

But Bella hardly has the opportunity to crouch defensively before she is unexpectedly facing three sets of well-known, albeit wholly black, eyes. Bella lays her hand on Dima's shoulder and takes a step towards the new arrivals, the confusion on their faces echo her own.

"Irina, Kate, Carmen?" Bella wants to ask them what in God's name they are doing traveling the countryside with the savages Dima just eliminated, but she supposes Carlisle must have instilled some manners in her over the years: she simply leaves the question unspoken. Dima mirrors her movement, stands between them still, and his posture is tense, ready for an abrupt climate change.

Kate takes the lead, but it is done with a reticence that belies the fact that she is more comfortable in a secondary role. Questions zip through Bella's mind: _Where is Tanya? Eleazar? Why would they ally themselves with barbaric vampires? How long has it been since they fed, and more importantly, on what, or is it on whom?_

"Bella," Kate's tone is cautious, uncertain even, and her jaw is tight. Bella cannot recall a reason for the hostility she senses, but it could be that Demetri is making the women nervous. The two vampires are, after all, standing in the wasteland of an interrupted massacre. "We saw the smoke," she says, and Bella wishes to hear concern, but the only tone she can identify is thinly veiled accusation.

Demetri hears it too, and a quiet rumble vocalizes in his chest. The female vampires before them give him a withering look, but Carmen especially seems ready to take insult. This strikes Bella as odd – she was so gentle when last they met.

Bella certainly does not want to fight these women, but she will not apologize for what Dima did. She would be a smoldering pile of ash by now if he had not interfered, or worse – perhaps she would still be alive and suffering at the hands of those two monsters. "Yes, two vampires," at this, the faces of the women across from them harden perceptibly. "I was attacked, Demetri intervened."

"You were attacked? By Tanya and Eleazar?" Carmen's tone expresses her disbelief. Bella's statement has only angered her, as though Bella were trying to justify an indefensible crime. Irina places a restraining hand upon Carmen's arm, but all three women stare at Bella intensely.

"Tanya and Eleazar? No. It was two male vampires – savages. They killed these men," she gestures about her, at the gore they have all been ignoring at their feet. "When I stumbled upon their meal, they decided to have some fun." It is all she can bring herself to say, but it is all that is needed.

The women seem to deflate, their faces now only hold compassion and distress. Kate explains that they have been looking for their companions, who failed to return from a hunt over a week ago. They tracked them by scent and found the discarded carcass of a bear, but their scent abruptly ended with no warning and no explanation. The three continued in the direction the others had been hunting, but with no result. Understandably, they thought the worst when the inky smoke stained the sky on the horizon.

Demetri tries to stop Carmen from approaching his companion, but a word from Bella suffices to allay his fear, and she is quickly pulled into a sympathetic embrace. Feather light fingers trace the scars that are visible, accompanied by the whispered words of "mi querida." To be held, comforted – Bella cannot recall the last time she experienced such a thing, and so she revels in the moment, recognizing that Carmen too may need comfort in this moment. Irina and Kate sprint away, but before Bella can inquire, Carmen tells her that they will return with sustenance, to help Bella recover and the rest of the women to persevere in their search.

And that is when the sickening realization strikes Bella: she came perilously close to drinking human blood, when the danger was ephemeral. The idea is crippling, but she puts it aside for a time that she can better indulge in her habit of self-recrimination.

After a bit of rest and a quick meal, Bella refuses to stand idle any longer. The vampires have compared notes, and it is Dima who speaks the fear that is growing within Bella – that the two quests may be related. Volturi guards disappearing, now Tanya and Eleazar, too. Fortuitously, Demetri knows Eleazar from his time in the guard, so he can confirm that the missing vampire's whereabouts lie vaguely in the same direction as Jane's. This is all the information they have to go on, but it is enough to fill Bella with dread. She is selfish (or perhaps merely realistic) enough to recognize that her ability to function independently of the Volturi and their agenda has been compromised irrevocably – first by the unexpected friendship forged with Dima, and now with the knowledge that she may be fighting for something far more tangible than human civilization – she may be fighting for the lives of her friends.

Desperation speeds their feet, and the five vampires quickly cover the necessary ground in a few days, ground that Bella knows she would likely have stretched out for several months. Well, even Bella is unlikely to have prolonged the trek through the long desert, pinched by mountains on either side. As Dima's gift tugs him more securely to the southeast, the tension within each of them increases. Additionally, they are often forced to turn away from their target temporarily, in order to avoid groups of vampires. None of the vampires are familiar to Dima, and there is no use in risking their safety at this point for information when an ambush is more than likely. The strangers stalking this land may simply be small covens or nomads, but after the violence of the last encounter and the threat that hangs over them in the continued absence of Tanya and Eleazar, caution is paramount.

As they close in on the buzzing hive of vampiric activity, Dima comes to a halt. Immediately, the rest of the group stop and look at him inquiringly. "Bella," he says, and though she cannot read minds, she already knows what he will say. How many times has she been looked at that way? Spoken to in that tone of pained regret? Too many to feel surprised when he continues, saying, "I cannot go further. You remember Aro's instructions? I am to get you as close as I can to where I feel Jane and Alec being kept, but not put myself in danger of whatever it is that holds them." His face is conflicted, as though Bella will call him _coward_ or spit on him.

But she can play her part well, so she holds her face absolutely still and nods. When it is clear that he is waiting for more, she says, "Demetri," and refuses to react when, for just a sliver of time, his face registers pain in response to her distancing him with his full name, "I understand. Go back to your master and show him what has happened, tell him that I will do what I can." The other women are talking quietly off to the side of the road, trying to give these two a modicum of privacy, when really there is nothing that can be said to make this moment right. Finally, Bella tries to think of what Carlisle would say in this situation and manages to conjure up a half-hearted smile and a genuine "thank you" for all Demetri did to save her life. He simply nods, but before he turns away, he rests his palm on her cheek briefly, whispering a gentle "_Do svidaniya_, Bella," and then he is gone.

"He might have given us something more to go on," Kate grouses as the women make their way gingerly towards the little village crouching upon the wooded hillock above them. Bella had been thinking the same thing, but finds that she resents Kate's criticism of Dima, now that he is not here to defend himself.

Irina hushes her with a look, however, so Bella too holds her tongue. She concentrates instead upon using every heightened vampire sense to absorb her surroundings, noting the point where the crumbling honey-colored hovels are being overrun by nature. She glances at Carmen, who seems particularly tense. Bella wonders, if they were not here to prevent her, whether she would simply go crashing into the buildings, oblivious to the risks and dangers. She must sense Bella's concern, as she simply gives the girl a sideways glance and a tiny smile.

"We have not seen or heard a live human for several hours," Irina whispers, and Bella realizes that she is correct. She herself has been so alert for any signs of fellow vampires that she had forgotten to take note of the human inhabitants of the current territory. Over the last twenty-four hours, they'd come upon a large number of dead and putrefying bodies, whole hamlets wiped out by the virulent illness plaguing the human population, but others too whose deaths came far more violently. How many vampires were congregating nearby?

Kate turns to Bella with an expectant face, "Well? Do you have a strategy in mind?"

"Yes," she says, knowing that they will not approve her plan, "I will go in alone…" Carmen hisses beside Bella, making her feelings clear. "Wait – hear me out. We do not know what is going on down there. We only know that whatever is happening, it is strong enough to hold Jane and Alec – no mean feat, you must admit. Let me go down there, look around a bit, and then I can come back, and we will all work together. There is no sense in showing our hand prematurely – if I go alone, then I am just a single vampire, but if we go together and get caught, they can use you as leverage against me."

It is clear that they are thinking over what Bella has proposed, which is more than she expected, especially from Eleazar's mate. Carmen will not leave him down there, Bella knows, so all she can do is minimize the potential for her friend to get hurt.

"There is just one flaw in your plan, Bella," Kate points out, "you may be impervious to whatever supernatural talent is at work here, but you cannot fight worth a damn." Bella wants to vocalize her resentment over the vampire's statement, but it is said so matter-of-factly that she honestly tamps down theoffense.

"Let me go with you," Carmen states, "then if they catch us, it is just two women seeking to find their missing mate and friend, not an envoy of the Volturi come to topple a rival coven."

Irina and Kate nod in agreement, though Bella can tell that they are each ready to use Carmen's plan with their own self substituted in for her. She tries to think strategically, tries to set aside the rash part of herself that is inclined to go running down there to get some answers, and so she begrudgingly nods her assent. Carmen won't have to dissemble her determination to seek her mate, and if they are caught, Bella can allow her to take point, hope that her friend's desperation will answer any questions as to motive. "Kate, you and Irina hide yourself back up the road – you remember the death pit in the last village? The stench should dissuade others of our kind from looking too closely. Carmen and I will reconnoiter and return to you there. If we are not back by sunrise, assume we too have been taken, and do what you must." Bella is trying to give them the option of fleeing, saving themselves, but she can see from their faces that they intend to follow as soon as possible; they will die with their sister, or die seeking her. All four nod mutely and break into pairs, each running silently in opposite directions.

The village is small and, having grown up organically over many centuries, lacks a cohesive organization – all the better for two vampires hoping to remain inconspicuous, though Bella recognizes that picking her way through a maze of golden stone may also result in an unfortunate surprise, should they meet up with guards set to protect this faceless threat. The lack of breeze works equally to their benefit and disadvantage. Closing in on the village's temple, the only building large enough to serve as a meeting space, prison, or throne room, Carmen and Bella nearly escape detection when a female vampire, clearly a native of the local aristocracy and dressed in ornately decorated clothing walked by at what even a human would consider a dignified pace. Unfortunately, the woman was not alone, and one of her companions investigates the tiny sound a stone being displaced, which is dislodged when Bella and Carmen press themselves into a dark doorway.

When it is clear that their presence will not remain a secret, Bella tries to signal to Carmen that she should attempt to escape, but the woman merely lifts her chin and huffs her disdain at this idea. Bella rolls her eyes, then steps out of the inadequate hiding place with her hands raised. The hostility in the guard's stance is palpable, and he is quickly assisted by three others. Carmen joins Bella in the narrow alleyway, broadcasting a similar meekness in posture. Two guards shift their focus from Bella to her companion, stepping past her to apprehend Carmen, and that is when she attacks. Bella's leg sweeps out towards the ribs of one guard, while her teeth clamp down viciously on the neck of the second guard moving towards Carmen. At that moment, Carmen propels herself diagonally over the fight, rebounding off the crumbling wall to her right, and launching herself towards the woman so richly clad – the woman whose presence demanded four guards, and who had made the mistake of pausing in surprise at this bellicose interruption.

Despite the guards' initial disadvantage, their fighting skills quickly justify their positions of defense, and Bella is summarily neutralized, pinned to the ground by one guard with her head in the hands of another. Her surrender is genuine, though she lets out a string of profanity that demonstrates that meekness is not something they should ever expect from her. Carmen, simultaneously, makes a grab for the vampire woman, but her desperation is insufficient to combat the professional abilities of the remaining two guards. In a ridiculously short amount of time, the procession towards the temple resumes, but with two prisoners in tow.

Made of the local stone, it is only the care and upkeep that particularly sets their destination apart. Where poverty and death have left the village a crumbling mess, the temple at its center is pristine. Bella marches begrudgingly through the temple gates, tugged along by the guards at either side. The group enters a serene garden, but the effect is undermined by the presence of two crimson-eyed guards standing resolutely at the temple's entrance. After a cursory perusal, the procession continues, and they enter a room not large, but certainly over-crowded. Before them, lined in two neat rows, which for an instant create an unobstructed view of the throne and the woman who occupies it, stand a host of courtiers, buzzing at the appearance of two prisoners. Despite the geographic isolation of the village, those assembled are not homogeneous, but consist of various races and sizes, a complete hodge-podge of vampires congregated. The woman who leads the procession, of which Bella and Carmen are compulsory members, bows deeply before the figure on the throne, pressing her forehead to the ground and making obeisance. The guards holding them fast push Bella and Carmen into equally respectful positions. Forced to kneel, Bella can only surreptitiously sneak glances upwards when the pressure of the guard's hand lessens upon the back of her head. At first, her impression is more about the scenery – a magnificent screen depicting fierce tigers and majestic mountains fills the space around the woman's throne, which in itself is impressive with its ornate carving and the wealth it bespeaks. The woman's garb eclipses all other decoration, however, with her gravity-defying coiffure adorned with thinly beat golden moons. Her clothing swallows the girl's figure in its richness, both the fine cloth and the impressive image of a phoenix climbing from its fiery resurrection that ornaments the central panel. Despite all this, she is in fact a _girl_ – young, perhaps fourteen or even less when she was changed, though her scarlet eyes speak of many lives lived.

Of the myriad of languages that Bella has acquired over her second lifetime, Chinese is, unfortunately, not one, so there is an abundance of indecipherable conversation that concerns her a great deal but she finds wholly incomprehensible. Well, that is until the guard holding Carmen hauls her forward and she starts screaming. At first, Carmen's screaming is that of an angry banshee, consisting largely of threats of violence and demands for the return of Eleazar. Bella watches the thinly drawn eyebrows of the vampire holding court climb slowly, and without taking her eyes off of Carmen, she tips her ear toward an obsequious man crouching at her side, whom Bella takes to be her interpreter. He whispers to her, and her expression, directed towards Carmen, hardens. In that moment, it is obvious to Bella that this woman's power is terrible to behold and Bella wants to throw herself in front of Carmen, but finds herself held as securely as ever. Bella embraces the anger that flows from this sense of powerlessness, welcomes the seeping red color beginning to tinge her vision.

The little queen's voice draws Bella's attention, not for its tone – she barely whispers, her confidence in the power she wields is such that a shout is beneath her – but for the word she speaks, and the fact that Bella understands it.

"Jane."

Immediately, Aro's pet stands on the woman's left, and though her jaw is set and defiance radiates from her; Jane must serve a new mistress because Carmen's screams of hatred morph into screams of agony. Rage consumes Bella, and she can actually see a shield pulsing around her with such potency that it is surprising that her guards are not physically thrown from her. And then a whole host of things happen so quickly that, to the human eye, they would appear simultaneous: a roar of fury escapes Bella's throat, and the eyes of both queen and drones shift from Carmen to Bella. A tiny spark of her teenage self gloats at the look of exasperation that flits across Jane's face upon her recognition of Bella's presence: they both know what is about to happen, and the baser part of Bella is, honestly, anticipating it with a bit of self-satisfaction.

Sure enough, with a flick of the seated vampire's hand, Carmen's pain ceases and Jane's begins. It is the disruption for which Bella has been waiting, knowing that the crowd of vampires pressed into the audience chamber will be thrown into confusion when it is Jane writhing on the floor and not Bella. Her intention was to shake off her guards, but instead, that task is left to three warmly welcome friends. Dima, particularly, snarling with rage and attacking with lethal precision carves away Bella's foes with ferocity, though Kate and Irina are undeniably lethal. If Dima is expecting thanks or even a word of acknowledgment, he will have to wait some time. For her part, the little monarch stands petrified on her dais, her visage carved in an expression of utter horror. Insulated from all the violence surrounding her, Bella stares mutely into the eyes of this erstwhile queen, absorbing the fact that she clutches the strings of this woman's mind as would a puppeteer.

* * *

**A/N: Holy Smokes! This chapter would not have been possible without the fantastic input of CindyWindy and miaokuancha – truly, ladies, I am blessed by your friendship. I also want to say a sincere thank you to katinki, who kindly rec'd this story in her last chapter of "Night Must Fall" – I danced around in my living room when I found out. :)**

**As ever, your thoughts, feedback, or constructive criticism will be cherished – I love to hear what you're thinking!**


	25. Chapter 21B

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 21.B**

_November 29, 1918_

_Mr. Gregory M. Nash_

_Chicago, Illinois_

_Dear Sir:_

_I am writing to confirm the receipt of your letter, dated September 23rd. I appreciate the lengths to which you went in order to ascertain my whereabouts and assure that I received your information. The recent cessation of fighting and my pending transfer to Paris would have made this task understandably onerous – no apologies are necessary, I assure you. Mr. Nash, I am well aware of your many years of business with my father and am content to leave my financial and legal circumstances in your capable hands. I am certain it would be his wish that I do so. Please note that it is my express desire that my remaining immediate relative, Miss Margaret Stewart, be named as my beneficiary. Though her health remains precarious, I pray daily that she will recover fully from her illness. Until that time, please make any and all necessary arrangements for her comfort and well being. I enclose a letter addressed to Margaret – please do me the kindness of ensuring that she receives it._

_Sincerely,_

_Mr. Edward Anthony Masen_

_

* * *

_

_November 29, 1918_

_Dearest Meggie,_

_Received a letter today from Father's man, Mr. Nash, telling me...__ Are you alright? Please be alright__... My dear girl, I can hardly write for weeping. How can I ever come home again, Meg? How can I come home, knowing that you needed me, that Mother and Father are gone? The things I've seen here…I think I've lost my soul, Meg. All the goodness and hope has gone out of me. And yesterday, I rested in the thought that it was simply left behind at home, to be put on again like a discarded shirt. But now I see that the whole world has tipped over. Everything is sliding into the abyss. But not you, Meg. You remain, and I need you more than you can possibly fathom. Grow strong for me, Meggie, grow strong and live. Send me word as to your recovery, just as soon as you can. I have a host of books for you to read and promise to read whatever novels you choose, if you'll only write and tell me that you're feeling stronger. Please._

_Edward_


	26. Chapter 22

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight; no copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 22

**Bella**

**November, 1918 –China**

_Her will is mine_. It's a chain of cold steel, and Bella's mental grip is firm, as though the girl might lurch free at any moment. There's a tension in the line that Bella can only label as equal parts terror and rage, but those emotions are old friends and Bella just nods to them in greeting, concentrating on the fact that, for once, it isn't her that is made to dance like a marionette.

In her peripheral vision, Bella notes the movement around her. With Jane and Alec released from the little queen's power, the Volturi guards have little trouble subduing the crowd of vampires assembled to give obeisance to this fallen monarch. Jane is apt to get carried away with doling out her brand of justice, but this is still essentially Bella's rescue mission and just a word of caution from her is sufficient to rein Jane in. This may have something to do with the fact that it's only Bella's gift protecting Jane's autonomy from her enemy's grasp. Bella smirks at how Jane must hate being beholden to her for even the smallest of favors. Alec robs the sycophants of their physical senses, and the crowded temple is suddenly, eerily silent.

Thus, the wailing that breaks the silence from outside is all the more disconcerting. Carmen and Eleazar enter, arms gripped around one another, as though they might solder themselves together, but any joy felt at their reunion has been stripped away by the news Eleazar has revealed. Bella doesn't need to ask what it is: it is carved into the faces of Irina and Kate, who enter behind them. Tanya is dead.

Bella turns back and flexes her mental grasp upon this child-queen's will, not entirely sure of the scope of her power over her opponent. "Who are you?" Bella spits, her expression hardening to communicate without words that this girl will receive no mercy here. The look of abject terror in the girl's ageless face intensifies, and for a moment her burnt red eyes sweep around the room, taking in the mute blindness of her followers. Eleazar steps up beside Bella without breaking from Carmen's embrace. He speaks to his erstwhile captor in a language Bella cannot understand. His mediation hardens something in the girl's backbone: instantly, fear is outwardly replaced with an air of confidence, and she turns her gaze directly to Bella, speaking as one ruler to another.

Eleazar translates, but it is as though he empties his voice of himself, lets it be inhabited by the woman before them, "My name is Lu Xi Feng. This land is mine. Who are you to come here uninvited and do violence to my people?"

Kate and Irina hiss their rage, but Bella simply smiles. She can feel the tenor of this woman's mind, how it quivers with hatred and, especially, with fear. A woman who can spit in your face as you beat her – that is the kind of woman Bella can respect. So she smiles at the irony of her actions and bows a deep curtsy, looking up to the girl's imperial face and answering, "Forgive me, my lady. My name is Isabella Cullen. I come on behalf of the Volturi, of whom you have apparently not heard. They rule our people and preserve the peace. I was sent to reclaim those who were lost," and Bella tips her chin in the direction of Jane, Alec, and Eleazar.

Eleazar's voice is all that can be heard as he murmurs a quick translation to the queen. After they confer, he declares for her, "Send them away. I will speak to you alone."

This time it is Demetri who hisses in hostility, but Bella has already thought through the benefits of shielding any important information gleaned in this interrogation from the ears and eyes of Volturi guards, and thus from Aro. And if she feels a twinge of regret at yet another reminder of Dima's true allegiance, Bella focuses on not enjoying her power too much as she nods her head slightly and watches all but Carmen and Eleazar scurry off. Both Bella and Xi Feng are smart enough to ignore Carmen's presence, rather than ask the impossible.

Through this exchange, Bella has been groping for the edges of the power she finds herself unexpectedly wielding. She has been careful to give no indication of the real situation to the others; so far, the Volturi seem content to believe Bella merely shields them from Xi Feng's power. More than anything, Bella wishes that Carlisle were present – he would explain to her why she's suddenly acquired the ability to utilize the gifts of others, not just turn them back on their owners. For now, she feels as though she is holding a long, loose leash with Xi Feng's will on the other end, and she concentrates on the _what _and not the _why_. Emotion and intent travel down the line, but not specific thoughts or ideas.

A bit of experimentation is in order. Bella concentrates on the connection and tries communicating a command without speaking. _Sit_, she thinks, and Xi Feng does. It is done regally, as though she were under no compulsion to obey, but it is done, and Bella can feel the link between them pulsing with resentment and something akin to panic. Bella hopes that emotion does not travel both directions, as she is dreading her next command. But she has to know.

_Make Eleazar lie down_. And he does. His eyes bulge at the realization that Xi Feng can still affect him, and Carmen gasps in confusion and alarm, but Bella closes her eyes and wants to weep. Without opening her eyes, Bella commands, _Release him_, knowing that Xi Feng has no other choice. She quickly follows this directive with one as all-encompassing as she can think of: _Do not move, do not direct anyone_.

Bella turns to Eleazar, who is again standing, and Carmen, and confers with them in hasty whispers, "It's me. I can direct her power. I don't know why, only that I can. Usually it's just a shield, sometimes it bounces the power back at the person if I'm angry enough, but for some reason, with her, it's like I can work through her."

Eleazar's own gift, to visibly discern the supernatural talents of others, has always been thwarted by Bella, whom he reads as completely normal, despite his personal experience to the opposite. Xi Feng, however, he has spent some time serving, and he tries now to explain her gift to Bella and Carmen, "It's the nature of her gift; it must be. Her talent is one of control: she robs those within her range of all willpower, yes, but it's not that she erases it so much as steals it unto herself. I cannot see your talent, Bella, so I cannot analyze the way it alters – why sometimes it merely absorbs, and at other times resembles a mirror – or how it is directed. But if your power was acting aggressively, then, to project back her gift on herself leaves her will at the mercy of you, or perhaps even anyone. Your attention was focused upon her: perhaps you picked up the reins, so to speak."

"Picked up the reins and made a target of myself, you mean," Bella says, heart clenching at the thought of the acquisitive nature of one very powerful Volturi ruler. The truth of this statement is reflected in Carmen's and Eleazar's bleak expressions.

"Please," Bella whispers, "give me a moment alone with her."

Eleazar, with Carmen in tow, reluctantly joins Jane, Alec, and Dima outside. Bella can hear him answering questions about the locals. He begrudgingly points out the few of those in the queen's train that possess talents from those who do not. Bella wishes she could feel surprised to realize only those Jane deems useless will be executed, but the little interaction she has had with the Volturi have brought one thing home: second chances are offered only when it suits their purposes. The crackling of fire and the smell of sweet incense waft through the open door; both women futilely try not to think of what amounts to extermination going on outside.

Bella sits on the floor at the foot of the throne, thinks _Come, sit beside me_, and feels buried under emotion as the girl stands and glides down the dais, sitting regally before her. They face one another, each staring into the face of their greatest threat, perhaps their greatest hope. Close up, the girl is even more exotically beautiful, her alabaster skin and perfect oval eyes remind Bella poignantly of her trip with Carlisle through the Great Exhibition so many years ago.

Bella intentionally loosens her mental grip on Xi Feng, feels the sense of relief at not being so tightly muzzled. "I wish you could talk to me," Bella whispers, wondering if there is a way to will someone into speaking something other than the language they know.

"I speak English," the words are awkward, dusty with disuse.

"Oh," Bella breathes out, "you do. It was all for appearances, then, the translator?"

"It is tradition." Bella nods in understanding. Her years with Carlisle have made her something of an anthropologist, and she can see how the withholding of a monarch's voice imbues it with great power and instills reverence in her people.

"I came here to retrieve my friends, and the others too," Bella says, feeling her own brand of compulsion to make herself clear, to establish some ground of understanding with this girl before her, "Not to take over your kingdom or your mind."

"_Ch'i 'hu nan hsia pei," _the girl mutters, then looks Bella in the eye and translates, "He who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount."

"Yes," Bella says, nodding. It sums her situation up nicely: how exactly does she extract herself from this dilemma? Bella crushes the empathetic thought that runs through her mind lightning fast: _We are alike, this girl and I._

"I do not wish to spend eternity as a pawn or plaything for your Volturi masters," the girl's voice is awfully commanding, given her position. Again the feeling of commiseration, the disconcerting sense that the statement echoes her own feelings exactly.

"They are _not_ my masters," Bella cannot help but argue, but Xi Feng's blatant skepticism forces her to tack on, "or at least, I do not wish them to be." Bella continues to wrack her brain, searching frantically for a way to resolve this conundrum that leaves neither herself nor her friends in the Volturi's clutches. Try as she might, however, only one answer presents itself, yet she half-hates herself for contemplating such a violent solution to this Gordian knot.

It is clear from the desperation pulsing through their link, though Xi Feng's expression remains serenely neutral, that she suspects the route Bella may take in dismounting this rabid tiger.

"I cannot fight you, but before you decide to destroy me, let me ask you a question. How long until the Volturi kings decide that you too pose too great a threat? Alone, you are powerful, but with me at your side, you are indomitable."

Bella stares into the girl's rusty eyes and thinks many thoughts. With vampire speed she races through a hundred versions of how this decision might play out, considers and discards a thousand reasons to jump at the girl's offer of power and dominion. She recognizes the situation for what it is – a far more dangerous temptation than the one she faced not long ago with Dima in the woods. She could have justified the human blood then, and she could justify the usurpation of the vampire empire now, but would that make it right? _Wouldn't she be a far more benevolent ruler than the Volturi ever were_? Question worm their way through her mind, tugging her this way and that. But just as in the woods, it is the thoughts of her loved ones that save her. Clear as though he stands beside her, Carlisle's voice rings out, quoting a book in which Bella can put little faith, but asking a righteous question, "_For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?_"

Bella stands the way she does all things when unconstrained by her human charade: abruptly. With a flick of her thoughts, Xi Feng stands as well. Bella's next action is not so seamless, which speaks volumes towards her inner turmoil. She hesitantly reaches up with both hands and pushes back the dirt-caked hood on the peasant's cloak she wears. With the gravity of a ceremonial act, she lifts the dark chestnut periwig, exposing the closely cropped curls that will forever remind her of where she had been and, more painfully, of what she had done to survive.

"I am Isabella Marie Cullen," and her words are like a prayer, though Xi Feng receives them as a death sentence. "That is enough. Forgive me."

No more words are exchanged. The little Chinese queen kneels, head bowed. Bella is quick, though she has never done this desperate work before. She snaps the girl's neck and tries desperately not to think of how she has traded this girl's life for a mere stay of execution of her own. She clings to the decision that seemed clear but an ephemeral moment ago: that she would not choose to be like _them, _but it is with a trembling hand that she scrapes the flint and sparks a flame. Still, her resolution is firm, and she does not look back as she exits the temple.

Her path is set. She has accomplished the task that was foisted upon her. She will bid farewell to Dima and travel east with her friends through the Bering Strait: back to home and hearth and Carlisle. Bella replaces the wig, lifts her cloak back over her head, and faces a life with blood on her hands.

**A/N: I want to thank each of you who have read and, especially, those who have reviewed, sharing with me your thoughts and critiques. If I've missed replying to any reviews from the last chapter, I apologize – I actually leave replying to just before the next chapter is complete, as it's something of an incentive to me. My favorite thing about reading/writing fanfic is the opportunity for readers and writers to interact, which is why I love hanging out at A Different Forest. **

**To CindyWindy, who checks in on me to make sure I'm still alive, and miaokuancha, who lovingly reads and analyzes every nuance of characterization with which I attempt to imbue this tale, I send my warmest thanks. **

**Edward gets the narrative back in Chapter 23, and that puts us in the final third of the story. Thanks for sticking with me!**


	27. Chapter 23

A/N: The conclusion of this chapter and the plot development in the next depend upon events/circumstances established in chapter 5, in case it has been a long time since you've read the early chapters of this tale. For now, I simply thank you for reading and give you a quick recap of Edward's experiences heretofore: Edward professed his love for Isabella, was rejected, abandoned, and learned of her fallen past. Disillusioned in both love and war, he chose to follow through on his ambition to join the military campaign abroad and served for a short time as an ambulance driver on the Western front. It was there that he received news that his parents and extended family (with the exception of his cousin Meg) were lost to the influenza epidemic. He has now been stationed in Paris and attempts to make sense of what remains of his world.

**Chapter 23**

**Edward**

**Paris, January 1919**

He was drinking, earlier. He had been doing that more often lately. Just one beer this time though, too warm for his liking. Not nearly enough to make this alright. But what in Edward's life is alright these days? Why should he, like Sisyphus, be the only one to push back against the impossible weight of the world? So, for one night, he thought he might just step aside, let the rock roll down the hill. What harm can it do, really, at this point, when so much else has already been lost?

That type of thinking brought Edward here, to this shedding of skin, shedding of clothes, to this unmasking, unmaking.

His eyes clench tight and perspiration starts to collect on his forehead. He discovers new depths of concentration within himself as his world contracts to a pinpoint of focus, which is located at the union of their two bodies. The rhythm driving his hips into her soft flesh is frenetic, desperate even, and maybe the slightest bit angry. And though he doesn't really know what he's doing, it doesn't seem to matter. He's not trying to impress anyone. The girl in his arms is secure in her role; she doesn't need him to touch her with a gentleness he's forgotten or whisper sweet words that he's lost. He doesn't care enough about her opinion to be embarrassed at how quickly this encounter will likely come to an end. The contrast between the intimacy of their act and the impersonal regard in which they hold one another isn't lost on Edward. But then, it's easy to see the world as impersonal when nearly everyone you care about is dead.

With an unexpected lurch, he spills his seed, wishing it were a small measure of the deadness consuming him. In that one moment, there is something intensely alive pulsing through him, but just as quickly it passes and he tries to welcome the numbness. He feels insulated from all experience - wrapped in cotton, in a metaphorical winding sheet; quickly, he stands and cleans himself off. They hadn't bothered to fully undress, so there's little to reclaim, and it's hastily done without any conversation. He doesn't know the right etiquette for this moment, if there is one – so he just drops the coins on the dresser as he exits. He most certainly does not look closely at this girl, with her chestnut hair and plump lips, the very features that had called him with a siren's song.

The resemblance hadn't been acute, even an hour ago with that pint of beer in his hand, but it had been enough to leave him breathless when he'd spied her across the bar. Reckless with the impulse to reclaim some sliver of life, Edward had let her lead him to a dirty flat in a rundown neighborhood nearby. At least with _this _brunette he knew from the start what he was getting himself into. Perhaps he could finally find some peace.

Stepping out the door, he blows a mildly frustrated breath into his already chilled hands and stalks his way back towards his barracks, attempting to arrest that dangerous line of thought. If he's not careful, images of Miss Cullen still spring up unbidden, though they are muted into a sepia hue, sapped of the vibrancy that seems to have seeped out of Edward's whole world, buried under the death he's breathed for the last few months. He can't quite summon enough energy to push them away tonight.

And, as if that admission is her cue, the specter of love marches beside him. A bitter laugh escapes as Edward ponders the awkwardness of _that _conversation. _Is my shirt properly tucked in, Miss Cullen? I'm afraid the poor prostitute had no mirror handy. _He wonders for a moment if her eyes would light with the fire of jealousy or just dim with contempt at the thought of what he's just done. Probably neither. She would likely conjure up some wholly unexpected response that would leave him more perplexed and less certain of his world than ever. Perhaps she would laugh, find it endearing in a childish way that Edward would throw his virtue to the ground in a fit of pique. _ Is that what I've done? Christ_. His reactionary impulse to kick something only reinforces this specter's judgment of him as a ridiculous child. And a nagging voice in his head wonders why he would even care what she thinks. _She was a whore, no better than the doxy you left back there._

And just like that, Edward is sitting on the curb, weeping. And it's not only the ghost of disillusioned infatuation that keeps him company, it's a whole battalion of phantom loved ones clamoring for a portion of his tears. _Orphan_. The word rises up to meet him, haunting him with a deeper ache even than Miss Cullen's dishonor or rejection can inflict. Edward wants to claw the numbness back into place, hide under the heavy embankment of helplessness that leaves the world muted and cool to the touch - these are preferable to the searing pain of loss rippling through him. Because he _is _still a child, or wants to be, in a way that he never wanted to be when he was one. Edward's belly tightens with how strongly he longs to be safely tucked into his family home, listening to his father talk to his mother about the day's business while Edward tinkers on the piano across the room. The smells and sounds and sights of home seem far more real to him in this moment than those of France. But, mist-like, these too drift away, leaving him raw with longing and ragged with grief. _Orphan_. The word clangs through his consciousness, turns his imagination into a weapon, paints the image of his mother and father into lifeless corpses staring at him in supplication. Edward wishes to reason with them, ask them what he might have done, even beg their forgiveness, but all he can do is stare.

That's where Martin, one of the few friends Edward has made here, finds him. Marty and a few of the other soldiers are heading back from a rowdy night in one of the brothels down the road when they spy Edward sitting in the gutter, staring at nothing in particular. Martin is strong from years of working on his family's farm in Wisconsin, and he doesn't stop to ask before he hefts Edward onto his shoulders and carries him back to his bunk. The others tease Edward for falling into a drunken stupor, but Martin watches him closely for a few days, as though waiting for his soft spoken friend to crack. He doesn't. Not yet, anyway.

It takes three more months before the fragile veneer of Edward's sanity is shattered into pieces. Marty and he have been attached to a high ranking diplomat, and they spend their time driving him (and his retinue of advisors) to various meetings with important dignitaries crowding the city of Paris for the peace negotiations, though it seems that Edward and Martin mostly sit, smoke, and wait. They park the jeeps side by side, share cigarettes, and talk about anything and nothing. Marty tells Edward of home, mostly-about his brothers, Nathaniel and Eli, and about Sarah, the girl he left behind, and how he hopes she's waiting for him to come back. Edward does not speak of home; he definitely does not speak of the girl he both pines for and resents in equal measure. Instead, he tells Martin about the books he's read – regales him with the plots of anything from Shakespeare to Tolstoy. With the common sense of Mark Twain's Jim, Marty points out the foolishness of Juliet's plan to reunite with Romeo by fabricating her own death. Edward likes the way that his friend's no-nonsense attitude shines the light of reason onto the romanticized fictions that he's always held sacred. It doesn't diminish the stories, somehow, just lends them a new glamour of fantasy.

Today the boys are heading out on a long haul. The Old Man is heading down through some of the worst of the damaged countryside, touring the Somme all the way up to the ruins of Bapaume. The devastation is nothing new to Edward, who spent his little sliver of wartime speeding wildly down half-carved roads, trying to get broken bodies and shattered soldiers back to the medics before one of the enemy's shells found the jalopy he called an ambulance. He's learned how to see without seeing.

The Old Man stops to piss, eat, and kiss a few babies in Noyon, a city that's suffered under German occupation, leaving the rest of the men to cool their heels. After a quick smoke, Edward wanders through the streets a bit, not realizing until he's there that he has been headed towards the city's cathedral all this time. He walks around the walls, surveying the damage, impressed that she's still standing. The stone in parts is pockmarked, damaged in the war, not unlike Edward's internal geography, and a feeling of kinship bubbles up within him, rattling his numbness, threatening his indifference.

When he comes back alongside the southern doors, he sees that they're open, and he instinctively enters the hushed sanctuary. Edward has not been inside a church since he bid farewell to his family in Chicago, and the realization stabs his gut, conjures up memories he would rather remain buried just now.

The interior of the cathedral smells of antiquity and holiness he thinks. Many of the windows have been damaged, but others remain, a testament to God's grandeur and man's creativity. Nearing the apse, he ducks into a small chapel but pulls up short.

It is her. Impossibly, Her. Staring Edward full in the face, warm golden eyes and beatific smile with just a hint of the wildness she keeps mostly buttoned down.

He wonders, with a strange detachedness, where the air has gone in this suddenly tight space. His chest heaves, lurches, works desperately to find the breath it craves, but to no avail. The vacuum that's been dwelling in his heart has finally broken free, consuming all the oxygen in the room, leaving him empty and broken.

The spell is shattered as a warm palm is pressed to the center of Edward's back. He whirls about, startled.

"_Forgive me, my son. You are well?"_

Edward can't understand him, but his expression is benign and his tone gentle. Edward inhales roughly, black spots swimming before his eyes, and the priest leads him to a nearby pew. His knees buckle, depositing Edward on the hard wood with an embarrassing crash. His cheeks flush, but the old man's nearly folding him in two, firmly pushing Edward's head between his knees. Slowly, his breath calms, but he remains bowed over with the priest's hand patting his back. Edward can hear his own heart beat thudding loudly in his ears, throbbing in his hands and eyelids.

"_Américain__?"_

Edward nods, concentrating on the old man and studiously avoiding Her eyes.

"_Vous admiré la peinture__?_" The priest smiles, combines his words with a simple gesture back in Her direction.

Edward swallows with difficulty, and then he slowly raises his eyes to meet her gaze. _Christ. It really is Her._ For a heartbeat, Edward hoped that there was just a resemblance, some echo of an expression or a shade of color that evoked her memory, but no. Something so much more magical and heartrending.

He closes his eyes, takes some calming breaths, then Edward lets himself really see Her. Or Them. Because it's not just Miss Isabella Cullen in the painting, but also her brother, Carlisle, whom he'd met on what Edward had naively thought would be his worst of days. She's sitting on a rock, clad in rich blue robes, dawdling a small child on her knee, and Carlisle stands behind her, hand resting protectively on her shoulder. The child, Edward realizes slowly that it's the Christ child, looks adoringly at her, while Carlisle, in the role of Joseph he supposes, fondly gazes upon them both. But Isabella, virgin Madonna, her gaze pierces Edward's soul.

* * *

A/N: I want to thank miaokuancha for prereading this chapter, and all of you for sticking around despite the ridiculously long delays in updating. I appreciate your time, and would so appreciate hearing your thoughts on Edward's development.


	28. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

**Edward**

**Paris, March 1919**

Edward is shaking so badly that he cannot stand, but that leaves him pinched in the hellish ecstasy of Miss Cullen's gaze; he cannot look away, and she never will. The kindly old priest babbles on in a soothing tone, but Edward can't concentrate hard enough to parse the meaning of the man's words. Ultimately, it's Martin's arrival that breaks him from his trance.

"Edward? There you are! The Old Man is—are you well? What's happened?" His tone of relief is cut off abruptly, replaced by real concern.

With effort, Edward pries his eyes away from the painting, but it is so difficult to look anywhere else. "Martin. This painting. I know this girl." What a ridiculous understatement and falsehood wrapped in one. First of all, it's questionable whether anyone really knows _this_ girl. And yet, she has meant so much more to him than these mundane words imply.

Martin turns to look at it, a bit warily, and Edward can tell he wishes to humor his friend so that they can quickly return to their duty and, hopefully, avoid a reprimand. But he's kind enough to see that Edward is desperate for something. "This girl, Edward? The Madonna?" He walks closer, up to the railing circumscribing the altar. "Edward, the painting is dated 1862. I don't think you could have known _this girl_. Perhaps she reminds you of someone you know?"

Fear compels Edward to stand. 1862? How could Isabella Cullen have posed for a painting in 1862? And her brother. The closer Edward stumbles towards the painting, the more certain he is that it IS them, not some pair of remarkable doppelgangers. "It's her. Them. I know them. I met them in Chicago before I enlisted – a brother and sister." Edward's voice breaks over _sister_, but he carries on because a dam has broken and he cannot contain it anymore, "I loved her. God, I loved her with a child's adoration. I studied every move, every expression, every word she spoke. You think I can't recognize her when I see her, after having made her queen of my heart?"

Martin's expression softens; Edward feels fortunate he doesn't roll his eyes – there's just something about Miss Cullen that draws him to hyperbole. "You never mention home, Edward. I assumed…the influenza…" his voice trails off into silence and regret. Martin thinks the breaking point has arrived, and Edward fears he is right.

Unexpectedly, Edward feels dampness along his jaw line, touches his fingertips to his face, and finds tears. "My family…" the rest of the words are swallowed by the knot in his throat, but Martin sees, understands. Edward pulls his gaze heavenward, hoping that will trap the tears, but the effort fails, creates a stronger gravitational pull when he brings his eyes back to meet Hers. "But not Her. She left." He cannot finish this tale. Cannot explain the emotions that are so much safer locked inside. Cannot articulate the complete contradiction of feelings tied to this woman, how he wants to spurn her, even as he wishes to beg her for her love. Nor can he justify his total certainty that, despite the fact that nearly everyone else he cares for is dead, Isabella Cullen is alive somewhere.

And was, apparently, back in 1862. Looking just the same.

"Martin, can you see a name on the painting? A signature? You're certain the date on the painting is 1862? Not 1892?" Edward's voice is just a whisper, but both young men can sense a difference – there's an intensity that has been missing in Edward for many months. He's fastened on to something, a way to survive this unexpected encounter that could have crippled him otherwise. It's given him something to focus on other than untended graves back in Chicago.

Martin turns back to the painting, affirms that the date is clearly 1862, then searches for an artist's signature but to no avail. A minor setback, it turns out, as the old priest, whose absence Edward had not even noticed, returns at that time with a slip of paper, on which is inscribed the words _Angelo Innocenti_. The elderly priest shares what he knows: that the painting was a gift from a wealthy family now emigrated to America, purchased after they had vacationed in Italy, Florence he thinks. He remembers the artist's name only because it struck him as remarkably appropriate, given the painting's subject and its new home. It is more information than Edward had hoped to have, honestly, and he vows to himself that one day soon he will travel to Florence and track down Angelo Innocenti.

**Italy, August 1919**

The opportunity comes reasonably quickly, although not a day too soon to Edward's way of thinking. As the peace talks wind to a close in Paris and President Wilson returns home rather disappointed, the U.S. military presence in Europe is drastically diminished. Edward seizes his chance, signs his discharge papers, and boards a train heading to Italy, though not without a heartfelt goodbye from Martin, coupled with a friendly demand that Edward visit his friend out on the farm in Wisconsin that he has heard so much about.

The trip over the Alps and into Italy is uneventful – a total contrast to the emotions roiling within him. What strikes Edward most is the way that he seems to carry this hollowness within himself. His horizon keeps broadening, unfurling to include these destinations that he had once dreamed of visiting, but it is hard to be excited when the nagging ache of loss haunts his steps. Still, there must be some kind of hope in him, if he's stopped letting Uncle Sam direct his path and is forging one of his own. Of course, thoughts like that tend to wind their way homeward to more painful contemplations, and echoes of the word _orphan_ make Edward anxious to be on the move, to fill his mind with distractions.

Isabella Cullen can be that distraction, for now. He thought she was inscrutable before? That was when she was merely elusive and dangerously fascinating. Now…now she is something entirely Other.

There are moments when he can't help but pull up short, reprimand himself for pursuing this fool's errand, recognize that he ought to be headed home – to what's left of it – and certainly to Meg, who has endured so much alone. And yet. Here he is, swaying with the gentle rhythm of the locomotive that moves him forward in a quest for answers centered around a woman about whom he feels a host of emotions, not all of them favorable. Edward has filled countless pages in his journal with words and pictures, music and poetry, but none seem to exorcise the hold she has on his imagination, his desires.

Until the painting, he had scoffed at the lingering fascination he felt for her. The oddities he had noticed during their acquaintance, particularly her oscillating interest and coldness, were adequately explained by the secret she revealed in her letter. That she would divulge her scandalous past at all was remarkable to Edward, but if her words were to be trusted (and why should they not be?), then this confession was made for the first time ever, implying that their connection was significant to both of them. She felt something for Edward, he was certain of it. And she believed that he could not love her, if her true past was known. The tension between these two facts is sufficient to explain the constant tugging to and fro that he felt in her attitude towards himself. There was nothing left to puzzle over, until now, so why has he been dreaming of her, waking from scraps of sleep hungry for her kiss, even after he's seen her true nature?

So much better, he thinks, if it turns out she possesses magic, some fantastical solution to this conundrum would at least set him free of the responsibility of cobbling together a mended heart. And though he would have laughed if Meg had suggested it, perhaps there was something bewitching in those golden eyes of hers, to have stolen away Edward's soul so dramatically. A startling thought grows from such speculation: what if there is no way to break such an enchantment? Must he pine for Miss Cullen his whole life?

He startles awake, yanked out of dreams full of fiery eyes and cold kisses, and realizes that the train is stopped at his destination. Edward grabs his haversack and lopes onto the platform with little time to spare. The combination of his winning smile and army uniform win him the offer of a warm meal from an old woman running a _pensionato_ a ways from the train station. She speaks no English and he little Italian, but her food is good and he's warmed by her generous hospitality. He hasn't smiled so much – since he doesn't remember when, and it's a blessed relief just to fix the woman's dilapidated fence in exchange for his room and board. He likes feeling useful, had forgotten that there are other emotions besides loneliness, longing, and resentment.

With effort, Edward makes his quest known to her, tries to explain that he's looking for Angelo Innocenti, but he's unprepared for the popularity of the name; on his map of Florence the woman marks at least three different Angelo Innocenti's before he thinks to mime the action of painting. Her face lights up, and she uses his nubby pencil to make a dark _X_ on a fourth location. Gesticulating strongly, she communicates that this is certainly the house he wants, but she follows this with a chucking sound and a shake of the head. "_È__ morto_," she mutters, and even without the regret in her tone and her instinctive sign of the Cross, Edward knows enough Latin to catch her meaning. Still, he thinks, perhaps the man's family remains, someone who could answer his questions about the painting in the cathedral of Noyon.

The next day Edward bids his kind hostess farewell and heads off in search of answers. When a studious looking man in his late forties answers the door and not only nods affirmatively that he is, in fact, the grandson of Angelo Innocenti the Painter, but he also speaks perfect English, Edward can't help but think that Fate is smiling on him. In the next moment, he's tempted to laugh aloud at his total apostasy from rational thought, having in the course of just a couple days credited his infatuation to witchcraft and serendipitous events to Fate. What is the world coming to?

Giuseppe Innocenti seats Edward at a well worn kitchen table and proceeds to serve him strong coffee and stale biscuits. "Now, young sir, you come in search of my grandfather. What is it you would like to know?"

Anxiety and anticipation have Edward jumping in his skin, but he forcefully stops his left foot from shaking the table and answers, "I saw one of his paintings in France, at the cathedral in Noyon. The Holy Family. You know the one of which I speak?"

The man's poorly fitted glasses slide down his nose a bit as he nods his head, saying, "I do. One of only two of my grandfather's paintings not held in a private collection. I do not think my father would have parted with it at all, had the offer not come at a time of hardship, near starvation, to be blunt. He agreed to sell it on the condition that it be given to a church, somewhere it could be seen, not hidden away like the others."

"The others?" Edward's curiosity is enflamed.

"Yes," the man's nodding brings his glasses incrementally lower on his nose, "my grandfather had a generous patron, a benefactor who chose to remain anonymous. My grandfather sold him every last painting in his possession, then drank the proceeds into oblivion. The two remaining paintings were hidden away by my grandmother, tucked into an old trunk and saved for her son. It nearly killed my father to sell the Holy Family, but it is right that others see what Angelo Innocenti could do."

The man has hardly finished speaking when Edward's questions bubble out of him: "Do you know the models for the Holy Family painting? What is the subject of the last painting? Is it in your possession? May I see it?" The man chuckles at his eagerness, and the action warms his face, bringing it to life.

He sighs, as though exasperated, as he stands, but Edward can easily read the man's pleasure in finding someone so interested in his family history. "Come, come," he mutters, leading Edward into a cramped study filled with books stacked precariously from floor to ceiling in some places. On the wall beside a small window, hangs a painting of modest size done in vibrant blues, browns, and creams. The woman in it stands in profile, with her head bent slightly. Edward does not have to move closer to recognize Her, but he does it anyway. She is wearing a kind of smock over a dark blue gown, and her hair is long, pulled into an extravagant knot nestled on her neck. As Edward stands a breath away, he takes in the way she seems so relaxed, more comfortable than he had ever seen her. He realizes that in her left hand is a paint brush, that she's bent to examine a flower's petals, and in the background he can now see she has already begun to capture them on her own canvas.

Apparently, she paints. Or did. With an Italian master. Sixty or so years ago.

"His muse," Giuseppe Innocenti offers, breaking Edward's fixed examination of the little portrait. "That is what my grandmother called her, _La Sua Musa_."

"Do you know her name?" Edward can't help but hold his breath, not sure what answer he's hoping for.

"No," the grandson shakes his head in regret, "no, according to my father, she was only painted, never spoken of. Well, never spoken of when sober, I suppose, but by the end, my grandfather was rarely sober. Sometimes when he was drunk, then he told marvelous tales, tales that have become legendary around here." The man shrugs his shoulders, and Edward hears what he doesn't say, something to the effect of _Artists – they are a bit crazy, no?_

"Legends – about her?" Edward gestures gently back towards the painting of the beautiful woman trapped in time.

Giuseppe laughs and claps him on the shoulder, saying, "Captured you with a glance has she? I always thought she was too dangerous for the Madonna. Better as Calypso casting an enchantment on Odysseus, eh?" Giuseppe's words strike disconcertingly near to Edward's own musings on Miss Cullen's power over him. The older man turns from the room, and Edward feels obligated to follow, though he really wishes to stand looking at this glimpse of Miss Cullen for a few more minutes or years. Edward moves a bit faster when Giuseppe calls over his shoulder, "Come, Young Edward, we must have wine if I'm to tell you of the _Stregoni Benefici_."

Edward catches the root _bene_ easily, but can't decipher what _stragoni _might mean. It is only ten o'clock in the morning, earlier than Edward is used to imbibing wine, but he's not about to discourage the man from sharing anything even tenuously connected to Miss Isabella Cullen, so he returns to his seat in the man's cramped little kitchen and accepts the glass of dark red wine.

When he begins his tale, Giuseppe Innocenti's voice is pitched low, almost conspiratorially. "There are some who would tell you that I am merely repeating the ravings of a disappointed drunkard, and others who whisper that this story brought about my grandfather's untimely death – I'll let you decide after you've heard it, but the way that you looked at _La Musa_ tells me that you'll have trouble dismissing it.

"My grandfather tutored _La Musa_ for several months, and he quickly suspected that there was something unique about her. Her talent, for one thing, exceeded his own in the technical aspects of the craft, and her ability to learn and master new concepts startled him. Beyond these things, he felt as though she were an…old soul, wise beyond her years. They spoke of many things as they worked, and she was remarkably well travelled and educated for a young woman of that day. Still, though he often felt as though something were wrong…not normal, somehow, he could never determine what caused him moments of anxiety. Until he saw _La Musa_ for the last time."

Here, Giuseppe pauses to take a slow drink of his wine. He's playing for dramatic effect, and it is working. Edward cannot help but picture himself in the place of Angelo Innocenti – their impressions of Miss Cullen are so congruent. He feels a strong kinship with the man, though time and death separate them.

"On a dark night, my grandfather rode in a coach rumbling its way from Rome back to Florence. He'd nodded off, but was awoken abruptly in the worst of circumstances. The whole coach was overturned on the road, and the cries of the horses froze the blood in his veins. He gripped tightly to the seat and tried to protect his head from broken glass and detritus falling in upon him as the coach slid to a halt. The man beside him was terribly injured, his leg crushed. A woman who had been traveling to see her daughter in Florence was also aboard, but my grandfather thought she might have been knocked unconscious, as she made not a sound. As the coach came to a lurching halt, my grandfather thanked God and St. Christopher that he was still alive, but he came to feel differently when the door to the coach above his head was immediately ripped off its hinges."

Again a dramatic pause. Edward is too tense to do anything but blink at Giuseppe, repeating a silent mantra of _Not her_ over and over again in his mind. When his host seems content to drink his wine in silence, Edward finally prompts him with a gentle, "Well?"

"Well, into that coach dropped the most beautiful angel my grandfather had ever seen. All porcelain skin and perfectly sculpted face, lit up with shards of moonlight. She hopped down into the coach, and my grandfather started to suspect perhaps he did die after all, and she was some heavenly host sent to bring him home to heaven. But then she touched him, gentle as can be, right on the forehead, and he claimed that he'd never known fear like he did in that moment. Ice cold to the touch, he said his heart quailed within him. Quick as thought, she was kneeling over the injured woman's body. He said, well it's quite gruesome if he's to be believed, he said that she licked the blood trickling off the poor woman's forehead, smiling wickedly at him as she did so. He hardly had time to realize he was in the company of a fiend before another descended upon him, an enormous man was suddenly in the coach, picking up both male passengers as though they weighed nothing. But Grandfather wasn't watching the thing that had laid hold of him – he was watching the bewitching demon kneeling over the woman's prone form: the vampire feasting on the dying woman's blood."

The silence in the room settles upon them. Edward is of two minds. He wants to laugh, at first-after all, even his wildest conjectures never led him down this ridiculous path of superstition. And yet. And yet he wonders if he can discount any possibility now, now that he's confirmed the impossible truth of her ageless beauty. So he finds his voice and asks, "_La Musa_?"

"_La Musa_? No," Giuseppe smiles gently and pats Edward on the shoulder, wordlessly acknowledging that Edward can imagine no other woman answering the description of angelic beauty. "No, the little cherubic fiend was childlike and blonde. No, _La Musa_ fought her, and won. She saved my grandfather's life. She and her companion, her brother. They are the _Stregoni Benefici_ – the defender of our kind."

* * *

A/N: We're picking up steam here (I hope)! Many thanks for reading. Also, extra thanks to miaokuancha for rec'ing the heck out of this story!

I'd love to hear your thoughts on Edward's sleuthing and how you think he'll react. Blessings!


	29. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

**Edward**

_**USAT America**_** (Atlantic Crossing) – October, 1919**

Against his every wish, Edward bends double once more, spewing nothing but stomach bile into the metal bowl clutched in his hands. He hates vomiting. Loathes it. A thousand horrid wounds he witnessed during his short stint as an ambulance driver in the war seem preferable at this pitiful moment when wracked with incessant sea-sickness. Again and again, his stomach muscles clench, leaving him retching. A pitiful moan escapes him as he falls back onto his bed. _What a daisy_ _I am,_ he thinks, having yet to outgrow his habit of self-flagellation at any hint of weakness.

They had been making excellent time, this steamship packed with US soldiers and government officials, until they hit a rough patch of weather, tossing them about for the last twenty-six hours. Most of the passengers are tucked away in their sardine-can berths, and many of those, like Edward, are not straying too far from their bunks. The rough seas and illness leave Edward miserable, trying to stave off the pathetic wish that his mother were near. Self-pity seems to be riding the unruly swells around him, threatening to capsize his emotional boat.

Eyes closed, stomach quiet for a moment, his fingers play gently over the rough little canvas lying beside him. Like a blind man, he can read the brush strokes already, can feel his way along her profile. Giuseppe Innocenti had been disinclined to part with his last remaining piece of his grandfather's artwork, but he had generously allowed Edward to hire an artist to paint him a copy. This is Edward's proof. This is his evidence when he thinks perhaps he is going mad. She is _more_. Vampire. Angel. He's not sure, but _more_ certainly.

The building nausea that he prays will subside only increases in strength until he is folded in half, expelling the emptiness within him. He can feel tiny capillaries across his eyes breaking with the strain, and tears squeeze through in spite of his best efforts. He gags on the vile taste in his mouth, and, wrung out, flops back down. Unconsciously, his hand reaches out to her, traces her face, seeks a connection.

One of the ship's nurses bustles in, all business as she takes Edward's temperature, empties his bedpan, swaps a clean spittle bucket for his used one, and commands that he imbibe more fluids. He can barely see her, his misery has turned his vision inward, but he's convinced that she has never experienced seasickness if she's able to issue such cold directives without an ounce of compassion. Just the thought of drinking the metallic tasting water onboard has him christening this new bowl with vomit. _Gah_. He cracks an eyelid open and sees her scowling at him, but he can't bring himself to care. Alright, he cares, but only because it pinches a memory of his mother's sweet face, leaning over him and tenderly bathing his brow with cool water when he was ill as a child. The thought hurts too much, and he hides from it with his fingertips, which gently follow the curve of Miss Cullen's hair, nose, chin, and breast. He wishes he could conjure her like Aladdin with his oil lamp, but he recognizes that illness has left him with a thousand impossible wishes tonight. Eventually, sleep takes him.

In his dream, Edward stares at a shiny brass doorknob. It's familiar; he's turned it a thousand times, but now he feels equal parts anticipation and dread. The knob turns without his assistance, and the anxiety spikes to panic for a moment before he feels lulled into a trancelike state. The door opens incredibly slowly, as though the air is thick and resistant; nevertheless, it draws him forward, and he looks around the parlor in his home in Chicago, accepts the odd assortment of people as one can only do in dreams.

His buddy from France is sitting near the fireplace sipping tea from a china cup, talking with his mother. She has not noticed Edward's appearance, her attention is so rapt. Even from the door, Edward can hear their conversation: Marty is describing in detail a soldier he transported before the war's end, a young man whose leg had been torn apart by an explosive. "You should have seen it, Mrs. Masen," he says, "I had to drive with a mask on – the air was so thick and yellow with gas – and the whole time, this poor boy is screaming his head off behind the mask his pal had shoved on him. My poor meatwagon couldn't go fast enough!" By the rapture painted on Elizabeth Masen's face, you'd think Martin was describing a picturesque view of Paris. The juxtaposition of Martin's wartime reality alongside his mother's softness is too much for Edward, who turns away to continue his search.

Edward's father is reading aloud from the Bible. This is odd enough, but stranger still is the host of worshippers kneeling before him as if to receive a blessing: all the young debutantes that Edward's mother foisted upon him in the months preceding his enlistment. It's a crowd of proper, pious young ladies, weeping silently as his father, who usually must be prodded awake throughout a Sunday sermon, intones: "'Then said Martha unto Jesus, "Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. But I know, that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee." Jesus saith unto her, "Thy brother shall rise again." This is the Word of the Lord.'"

Gently, Edward pushes past this strange congregation to find Her. He's known she was present from the moment he stared at that doorknob, though he would not have been able to explain the certainty. She is perched on his piano bench, flanked on both sides by people he knows, but in his mind's eye, their faces are blurry; he concentrates solely on hers. Her fingers dance across the keys of his piano, caress them in a way that stirs his passion for her. Her head tilts just slightly, and she looks up at him from beneath her lovely lashes. He's terrified, just as he was the night they first met, terrified and intrigued and utterly lost.

He takes a slow step towards her, and a smile begins to form on her exquisite face. Each step he takes develops it further, so that by the time he is standing with only the piano between them, she dazzles him with her radiant glow and honey soft eyes. The scent of her wafts over him, fills his lungs, and he feels his lust grow stronger as his body responds to her nearness. All he can see is her perfect alabaster skin set in contrast to the deep blue dress, her dark hair long and tied into a knot at the nape of her neck. He's close enough now to see the smudge of orange paint on the back of her hand, and that detail provides a moment of clarity for him to recognize that he has never met this incarnation of Miss Cullen before: she's sprung whole from the canvas he sleeps beside.

His gaze shifts to those who frame her perfect face. On her right, Edward recognizes his cousin Evangeline's late husband, Richard Dorset. Miss Cullen's posture stiffens as Edward's focus slides from her to the corpse she's been entertaining. Dorset may be ambulatory, but his skin is a disturbing grey color, and his clothing is soiled and wet from the river in which his body was found. The surreal sparkle of the dream drains away, replaced by a sinister intensity that causes Edward's heart to speed. Staring at Richard's ashen face, nausea again threatens, and Edward just barely beats it back. Dorset has no such luck, however, and turns his head to spew water and blood all over the fine carpet.

A completely inappropriate giggle swerves Edward's focus to the little maiden perched at Isabella Cullen's left side. Though the girl's hair drapes over her face as she leans over Miss Cullen to watch poor Dorset's misery, Edward knows that it's Meg: Meg, whom he has abandoned, Meg, whom he cannot imagine facing, feeling that he ought to have been home, by her side, suffering alongside all of them.

As though she can read his thoughts, she swings her golden head around and stares at him in silence. His heart breaks: this is not the Meg he has known. His rosy cherub of a cousin has disappeared, and in her place sits a disturbingly beautiful little imp with sunken cheeks and dark bruises below her eyes, eyes that are dark with malice and wrath. And then a wicked smile grows on Meg's sweet red lips. Her hand, resting until now in her lap, lazily trails up her wine red bodice, runs fingers seductively along the top of her budding breasts, and finally caresses her long yellow curls. So slowly, she pushes them over her shoulder and fondles her own neck, upon which Edward stares at two bloody puncture marks.

He gasps. Startled awake in terror, Edward vomits violently into the dish beside him. Covered in sweat, his body shakes uncontrollably, and he wishes he could gouge that horrible vision from his mind. Misery blankets him, leaving him weak, and now that damned painting feels more like an albatross about his neck than a holy relic. The seas around the ship have gentled, but Edward can find no peace.

Peace continues to elude him as he disembarks in New York. The crowds of people jostle him, and though he has the wealth necessary to smooth his journey considerably, Edward prefers anonymity to comfort. Plus, he isn't particularly eager to arrive at his destination, so it is easier to travel burdened with all the delays and inconveniences he encounters than to face Chicago. But all the missed trains and waiting for hacks can't postpone the inevitable, and that is when he truly discovers that silence and peace are worlds apart.

Edward did not inform anyone of his imminent arrival, and so the house is especially stark and cold. Mrs. Tysdale, the family's housekeeper, cannot seem to decide whether to kiss him or paddle him, though as he is now the man of the house, his bottom's not in much danger. Still, her expression is tight with emotion as she scolds Edward for not giving her proper warning that he was headed home then quickly busies herself, snapping ghostly linens off the furniture. He is all she has left now, and Edward studiously ignores the few tears that she can neither hold back nor acknowledge. The Prodigal has returned, and all that. No fatted calf or jaunty celebration for him, though-just the jarring sound of Mrs. Tysdale winding a grandfather clock that no one has needed to read for almost precisely a year.

**En route to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin - November 1919**

It takes Edward nearly two weeks to find the courage to make the trip out to see Meg. Mr. Nash, their solicitor, had informed him of Meg's determination to leave her family's home in the city, retire to a quieter location. Her health had been severely compromised by the influenza, and the doctors had proscribed a lengthy convalescence. She has been staying in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, at the summer house of the Seipps, old family friends. Edward can't help but smile at the association of the sleepy town's name with the writing of Shelley's _Frankenstein_. It is unfair of him, but he needs Meg to remain constant, to still be an idealistic romantic despite the suffering she has endured and the death she has witnessed. It is a selfish need, but recognizing that fact doesn't diminish its intensity.

Having spent the majority of his time behind the wheel of an automobile transporting self-important generals or writhing wounded from place to place, Edward finds the freedom to sit alone in his newly purchased Model T, cold wind blowing in the open windows, a small slice of heaven. Nothing has made him feel this good in recent memory, so it shouldn't surprise Edward that the burst of joy brings with it a whiplash of emotion. He pulls the car to the side of the road, walks out into a fallow field and lets himself weep. Edward doesn't wish for the numbness back, but he doesn't know what to do now that it is gone. Fisting his eyes and tucking away his handkerchief, he returns to the car and breathes in the cold sunshine and freedom, revels in the speed and independence.

With few of the wealthiest residents remaining year round, it is particularly quiet in Lake Geneva when Edward finally arrives. He arranges for a boat to take him to Black Point, the Seipp's home, in the morning. Early the next day, they land at the dock just as the fog is lifting, folding back like a lace curtain from the graceful lines of the widow's perch. The romance of the summer home is palpable, as is the feeling of isolation as the boat ties up only long enough to deposit Edward and his luggage on the dock before heading back across Geneva Lake. It is intimidating – this house, and a wave of dread crashes over him, slowing Edward's steps. However much he longs for the Meggie of bygone days, he is fairly certain that she is gone. Who dwells in her place is a question he has put off answering long enough.

Edward's admission to the house does nothing to allay his anxiety, though, as the poor old housekeeper seems to exude the same emotion. Timidity is one thing, but this woman looks as though she expects him to strike her at any moment. Even Edward's easy smile and careful attention as she shows him to his room are insufficient to coax a bit of warmth from her, and he cannot help but wonder at the sort of people the Seipps are, that their servants should appear so nervous. As Edward makes his way to the exquisite solar overlooking the lake, his fears are realized. Behind closed doors, he hears a shrill voice raised in anger, followed by the sound of shattering crockery. He can hardly swallow down the lump of apprehension rising from his gullet, but he does so manfully and enters the room to survey the scene. Shards of china are scattered on the floor, and the housekeeper is stooped to retrieve the largest bits. Her hands shake. Propped in a chaise lounge, staring haughtily at the lake lies Edward's cousin.

"Are you just going to stand there, staring?" She doesn't turn to acknowledge him directly, and her tone is icy cold.

For a moment, the housekeeper is about to panic, but her saucer-big eyes catch him out, and Edward can see she's relieved a bit to be out of Meg's sights. _Right, let him bear the brunt of it for a bit_, her face telegraphs. That his little cousin has cowed this poor woman into such a state straightens Edward's posture, and he bites back, "Perhaps. It's not as though you could stop me, unless you've more tea cups to use as ammunition." He raises an eyebrow in her direction, but it's wasted on her profile because she still hasn't turned to look at him.

"Fine. I can wait you out," she responds with bitter resignation, "no doubt you'll be running off soon enough."

Driving an ambulance in the war, being in and out of the hospital tents so often, Edward had occasionally struck up a friendship of sorts with some of the guys who were stuck there for a spell. One gregarious fellow in particular used to beg cigarettes off him and shoot the breeze whenever Edward passed through. He'd had both legs amputated, and Edward thought it strange that he'd get antsy sometimes, feeling an ache in his phantom limbs. In this moment, Edward's mind flashes to his face – cigarette handing out of his mouth, lopsided grimace as he rubs the empty bed below his kneecap where his shins should have been.

Something has been severed, and it aches where love has gone missing.

At some point, the housekeeper has made a silent exit, so there are no witnesses to this painful scene, for which Edward is grateful because he is honestly more terrified facing his fifteen year-old towheaded cousin than he ever felt dodging shells over in France. _But not more terrified than you feel about Miss Isabella Cullen_ a voice whispers, but it is quickly locked it away. _One thing at a time_.

He starts to walk closer to where she is seated, but he's at a loss as to how to proceed. He could kneel before her and beg her forgiveness: she was left to bear a burden that he feels he ought to have shouldered. However, Edward is equally inclined to stand resolutely before her, take the reins of this conversation, and lecture her on her poor manners. In the end, he just stands there, mute.

True to her word, Meg stubbornly stares out at the water, does not look at or speak to Edward in all that time.

He tries one more time. "Meg," the name is both a plea and admonishment, but with the exception of a slight tightening in her shoulders and a clenching of her jaw, she makes no response. Defeated, at least temporarily, he turns and exits the room.

The frigid silence is also present in the dining room when Edward makes his appearance that evening. The sound of a scraping knife, her expressionless face as she slowly chews the minuscule portions of food she'd allowed to be served to her: these are Edward's dinner companions. When Meg rises, rudely exiting before he finishes his repast, he gets his first good look at her. Meg may have always been slight, much to her chagrin when they were racing or mucking about, but the sight before him twinges in that phantom limb way. Bones, really, are all she is now – it's as though she's taking up as little space as possible. Appetite gone, Edward pushes himself away from the table and spends the remainder of the evening pacing, strategizing.

Early the next day, he enters the solar where she is, once again, sitting and staring out at the water. He notices, warily, that she's armed with a tea cup and saucer this time. It's odd, really, the bifurcation that has taken place. Because every time Edward is in her presence, it's as though he is watching two Megs – the Meg he knows—_knew—_and trusted, the Meg who might laughingly threaten to chuck her tea cup at his head, but would never do it, and the Meg who has replaced her, who seems entirely capable of inflicting a concussion with nary a feeling of compunction. Need I tell you which Meg Edward prefers?

Today, his strategy is obdurate optimism. Edward will meet her persistent silence with a forced cheerfulness. He spends the morning regaling her with items from newspapers, to which she shows no response. He sticks to the insipid columns focused on the social calendar of Chicago's elite, all of which Edward delivers with a whimsy that grates. In the afternoon, he gushes about his new love for the automobile. In the evening, Edward spins wild tales about the secret adventures lived out by the meek little housekeeper. Not once does Meg speak directly to him. Edward retires for the night with a newfound respect for his cousin's intractability.

Rising the following morning, he recommits himself to battle. Good generals alter their tactics if they find them unsuccessful, and Edward can see that his attempts to draw her out with humor only hardened her resolve to punish him for his desertion. Fine, then. Perhaps a frontal assault will at least draw her into a confrontation. Edward wants to think that she needs the catharsis of spitting in his face, but there is a small part of him that suspects it is his own need for martyrdom that is so hell-bent on provoking this fight.

Just like yesterday, Edward draws a chair beside her in the solar, but today he too stares out at the writhing waves and building clouds. He pitches his voice low, appropriate for a confessional. "I kept waiting for a letter, you know. Sent three or four, each more desperate than the last, for good news, a bit of home. I liked thinking of you when I was over there – could imagine you at your desk, reading books, cooking up some wild interpretation and grinning at yourself while you wrote it out to me." He pauses, sneaks a glance, and though her face remains closed, Edward knows she's listening. "I never thought—I couldn't have imagined, back when I enlisted—I mean, I keep thinking back, going over that decision, wondering if it would have made a difference—I'm sorry-"

Meg stands as abruptly as her withered frame allows, walks silently from the room. She does not come down for the afternoon meal. Edward is on his way up to inquire about her when the housekeeper exits Meg's room, shutting the door with care. She whispers that "Miss is indisposed" and hurries on her way. He eats dinner alone that night; however, Meg makes an unexpected appearance on the balcony of the widow's walk where he has retired to smoke cigarettes. The cold mask is gone and a brilliant rage makes her incandescent.

Before Edward can speak, her eyes flay him alive. Childishly, he has a split second where he can't help but gloat at his success before her voice slices him open. "Mother was ill, consulted a doctor, took the medicines he prescribed, but she didn't get better. It was only a few days later that Evangeline started feeling poorly. Headache, joint pain, stuffy head, typical really, except that it kept getting worse. Father. Your mother. Your father. Like dominos I watched them fall, Edward. I sat beside sick bed after sick bed, wore myself to the bone rushing from one room to the next, trying to keep them alive. Trying to be strong enough, caring enough, _good_ enough. All the while, naively hoping that you'd come home, make things better somehow, as only you could. But I was alone, terrified when my own body began to fail, certain it was a death sentence. I was delirious with fever, had terrible dreams—" she cuts herself off as something other than hostility tries to claw its way to the surface. "It was weeks before I began to recover, woke to find myself in the hospital, an orphan. Alone. The damage done to my lungs, Edward, it can't be undone. All day long, it hurts – to breathe. Every breath, every single one is a reminder. I am alive, while all of them are dead. My life will never be the same. So I don't need you here, reminding me of all that I have lost. And I certainly don't need you here to remind me of what a fool I was, thinking your presence could somehow solve every problem and right every wrong. You can't save me; you can't even save yourself."

Her steps as she walks away are resolute, far more adult than Edward feels. A satisfying pain shivers through his head as he thumps it against the post. A pyrrhic victory, then, or maybe Edward got exactly what he wanted.

His bags are packed and lying at the front door, waiting for the ferryboat to come and collect him. The housekeeper assures him that it will be by around ten with the post. Sure enough, Edward hears her at the door, and arrives to find the boat's captain handing over a box that looks too heavy for the poor woman to carry comfortably. Though she fusses, Edward insists on taking it from her while his things are loaded onto the boat.

"Oh, Sir, I'm sure I would have managed just fine. It's only going into the cupboard in the hall here."

Edward glances down at the weighty parcel and sees that it is addressed to Meg. "Are you certain?" he inquires, "Oughtn't you to bring it to my cousin? It might be important if it has been shipped all the way here, rather than sent to her home in town."

A little shudder goes through the poor woman as Edward suggests she bring the box to Meg, and she contradicts him as politely as possible, "Oh no, Sir, Miss made it clear as day that I was to keep any more of these parcels out of her sight. You can just place it here, with the rest," she says as she opens the cupboard door. Sure enough, Edward sees that there are five other boxes already stashed away, only one of which (presumably the first?) has been opened.

Curiosity piqued, as Edward stoops to set this newest arrival in its hiding place, he nudge the opened box, displacing its lid, and freezes. It is full of books. Novels. His eyes sweep over the titles and authors. Wollstonecraft. Alcott. Bronte. Austen.

He tries so very hard to keep his voice normal as he turns to the housekeeper and asks, "And how often does my cousin receive these packages?"

"Oh, every week, Sir. Seems a shame to me, hiding away all these lovely books, as that's what they are, but I nearly got beheaded with one when I took it to Miss thinking she might like to distract herself from her woes with it. I don't make the same mistake twice, that's for certain. If she wants to keep them out of sight, then so it shall be. You do think I'm doing right, don't you, Sir?"

Edward hastens to assure her that she has executed her duty in all things, though his mind is spinning in a hundred directions, all of which keep dragging him back to one thought: _Isabella._

"Sir? Perhaps you ought to write to the person and ask them not to send them?" she suggests, and Edward considers kissing the old woman.

In the end, he simply replies, "Well, yes, perhaps I ought."

* * *

**A/N: I just want to say thank you a million times over to all of you who have joined me in this journey, most of whom are here because of jennyfly, who has so generously recommended this story. I'd love to hear what you think. **

**On a side note, Black Point mansion on Lake Geneva is real and gorgeous. Google it to see images - I can't do it justice in the short space it's been given in this story.**

**Finally, if you need a break from my unremitting angst, I suggest ShortHappyLife's "Room With a View," which I beta. It's adorable.  
**


	30. Chapter 26

**Chap 26**

**Edward**

**Lake Geneva, Wisconsin – November, 1919**

Of course, there is no return address on any of the packages. That would be too easy. Edward has his bags brought back to the house, then carries each of the boxes of books up to his room. He unpacks them as though they are precious cargo, can't help wondering whether she'd handpicked them, even packed them up herself. He holds one to his nose and inhales, but there's no trace of her honey sweet scent, just the heady smell of paper and leather. Still. They remain a tangible connection to her, and that cannot be overvalued.

As he stacks them up, Edward opens some of the books at random and reads passages. They are old friends, many of them, and even more welcome as they seem like emissaries. He has to keep reminding himself that they were sent to Meg, not himself, but there's a little voice that wonders if she thought of him as she chose them. He was bound to learn of them eventually, correct? Even if she was unaware of his current whereabouts, if he ever made it home from the war, Isabella had have to have anticipated that he would be reunited with Meg and would learn of this continued…something.

Or perhaps not. Obviously Meg had no intention of revealing the presence of these parcels. They might even be in continued correspondence – perhaps Isabella had asked Meg not to mention her to him – though Meg's apparent avoidance of the boxes would argue against that conjecture. A thousand possibilities crowd his mind, but none of them bring him closer to his goal. Which he has: he is going to find her.

Ultimately, it's something innocuous that gives her away. Tucked into a copy of Trollope's _He Knew He Was Right_ is a handwritten receipt from a bookstore in Ashland, Wisconsin. He knows there's no certainty that it will lead to anything, but for now, it's a direction to run in, and Edward really feels like running. But first, he needs to say goodbye.

Despite the fact that, just a few hours ago, he had been fully prepared to leave without a formal leave-taking, something is different now. More than even needing Meg to listen, Edward realizes he finally needs to speak. He sits at the ample desk in his bedroom at Black Point and writes:

_Dearest Meg,_

_You might toss this into the fire without reading it first, but in the hopes that you won't, I have a few things I want to tell you._

_The words you spoke last night are etched upon me, Meg, for they are my very worst fears made manifest. Whatever my motives for enlisting, I pray that you know that I would have paid any price to spare you the pain of the last year. I am sorry that it has taken me so long to say that to you. It was cowardly of me to avoid returning home once the war was done; I knew it then, and I feel it even more strongly now, but I have no excuse to offer. Only my humanity, Meg. I am deeply flawed. How could you know me as well as you have my whole life and only come to discover this truth now? It baffles me. I wish I were otherwise – I wish I could be for you what you needed, what you willed me to be._

_I know something of the pain of watching a person you've placed on a pedestal come crashing down at your feet – I think you know of whom I speak. I have only my own experience, of course, but it makes me ache in sympathy for what you might be feeling now. I ricocheted between disappointment and fear, most of which made me brooding and sullen, while you seem to be aiming at hostile and vitriolic. Forgive me, Meg, but truth has always been our way, and I will hold to it now _because_, not in spite of, the love I bear for you._

_Strangely, it is only now, in finding myself on the receiving end of your misplaced adoration, that I can comprehend how unfair it is of us to burden human beings with roles fit for gods. I wish I could have arrived like the second coming of Christ and slain both pestilence and pain, but, Meg, can you rationally blame me if I fall short of such a hope? Lord knows, I've encouraged you in this delusion of my grandeur, but you've held up a mirror that is forcing me to recognize the ridiculous arrogance behind my actions. What could I have done, Meg, but possibly sickened and died with them? Would you be any less bitter with that outcome? I am not God, and it's time I quit acting as though I am, just as it is time that I quit hiding from the evidence of my shortcomings, with you and others. Won't you forgive me my imperfections?  
_

_In absence or presence, I remain as always,_

_Edward_

It seems cliché to him, but truly a weight has lifted. Searching his mind for a better metaphor, he hits on Dickens, which seems appropriate. He feels like Ebenezer Scrooge, reborn after a night of misery, awakened just in time to mend his ways. Edward busies himself all night, getting hardly any rest, preparing his farewell to Meg. In the morning, after his cousin has removed herself to the solar, Edward brings his plan to fruition. He silently transports the novels to Meg's bedroom, scatters them on her bed where she can't ignore them any longer; tucked into each, Meg will discover a quick synopsis of Edward's opinion of the author, story, and theme. He will carry on his end of their conversation alone until Meg has mended enough to rejoin him in dialogue. Atop the copy of _Emma_, he lays his epistle and then quietly takes his luggage and leaves.

**Ashland, WI – December, 1919**

It takes a good while to arrive to his destination, given the state of the roads and a small side trip. When Edward realized that his friend Martin's farm lay near his route north, he stopped to visit and ended up staying a week. Extracting himself from Marty's hospitality was more difficult than he expected, but his bear trap of a friend loosened his jaws when Edward admitted that he was pursuing a girl. Now, standing on the steps of Gregson's Books and Stationary, Edward smiles to remember the joy in his friend's face.

"No kidding! The painting gal? Gonna admit you're over the moon for her, eh?"

Edward had rolled his eyes – admitting his feelings for Isabella had never been the issue – but he was quibbling. He had known what Marty was driving at well enough, so he had reluctantly nodded his head.

"What did it take?" Marty had ribbed him. "A big conk on the head? You find what you were looking for in Italy after all?"

"Yes, to both," Edward had expelled a deep breath and then, determined to learn to laugh at himself, had explained about Giuseppe Innocenti's grandfather and also Meg's hostility.

Martin had whistled long and low. "You got a pretty little cousin spitting nails because you couldn't fly faster than the Spanish Bird and a hundred year old vampire dame you're dizzy over. Well shoot, Ed, no wonder you were so full of frowns over there in France." Summed up so succinctly, Edward could only take a swig of beer and then laugh. He was still pretty sure that old Innocenti had been half-mad with his stories of savior vampires, but something in Edward's gut kept him from dismissing the tale out of hand. It was as good of an explanation as any he'd come up with on his own, anyway.

Here in Wisconsin, Edward shakes his head as he pushes open the door to the bookstore in this sleepy little town in northern Wisconsin, listening to the bell above it chime and wondering if there is anything he _can't_ believe where Isabella is concerned. Edward keeps trying remind himself that there's a good chance nothing will come of this trip to Ashland. He's certain that she sent the books, but far from certain that she bought them here. After all, books are bought and sold many times over, and Trollope's novel might have passed through this shop years ago.

A gentle looking man bustles out of the back, wiping his hands on a kerchief and grinning ear to ear. Edward can't help but smile back.

"Well, young man, how can I help you today?"

Edward wonders how directly he should approach the man with his request for information. Ought he to look about first, or come directly to the point? In the end, the man's open expression decides for him, and Edward places the receipt on the counter. "My cousin, Miss Margaret Stewart, received a book purchased from this shop, though I can't be certain of the date. It was shipped to her in the last two months…"

Edward wouldn't have thought it possible, but the man's face brightens more. "Oh, good gracious, that's splendid! I've so enjoyed picking those out. I do hope the young lady is recovering nicely. Always said a good book goes a long way to making one right as rain, both body and soul..."

Edward's face falls, and it brings the shopkeeper to a slow stop. The poor man's face is telegraphing his fear at having said something wrong, so Edward hastens to assure him that Meg is on the mend (he sends up a quick little prayer that it's true), but he can't keep the disappointment from his voice as he asks, "Did you say that you chose the books yourself? Not…someone else then?"

"Oh, is that what's got you worried? Miss Cullen picked the first set—oh, it was a while back now, before she went on her long trip. We had a nice chat about what type of books she wanted and all. You can see I've a smallish shop here, so I had to send inquiries to the bigger cities to get some of the titles she was asking for. We worked it out between us though, and now I just pull the books from the delivery shipments and send them right on to your cousin. Heaven above, I hope she's got a big room to house them all!"

Edward smiles and nods, but inside his brain is spinning, trying to sort through the information this gregarious old man has showered on him. Isabella was here; she went on a long journey; she arranged for the books to be sent to Meg. He quickly forms and discards several questions before finding the right tone of polite disinterest. "Miss Cullen has been so kind to Meg. I would like to thank her myself. Could you direct me to where I might find her?"

The shopkeeper pauses, chewing on the side of his lip before responding, "Well, I'm not sure I should be sending a strange fellow on to her home, but there'd be no harm in sending you on over to Dr. Cullen – he's the doc here in town, works at the hospital just up the road a bit. He'd be able to tell you whether she was home anyhow, might save you a drive if she's not. Awful fond of traveling, that one."

Though the reality of standing face to face with even Carlisle Cullen has Edward's heart beating double-time, he has to resist the urge to hug the old man. "Thank you, I'll do that. You've been so helpful, I can't thank you enough, Mr—?" The last bit rises as a question.

"Gregson. Walter Gregson. You send my best on to your cousin, tell her I'll keep my eye out for something real nice for the next shipment." The two men shake hands like old friends, and Edward works hard to keep his gait from expressing the nervous energy coursing through him. He leaves the automobile parked beside Gregson's bookshop, walking briskly down the street towards the handsome but modest hospital. Though the air is cold, the sun shines brilliantly in the blue sky. On a day such as this, it feels easy to hope.

Edward's hope is tested, however, when he arrives in the small hospital and is told that Dr. Cullen is not in, has called in sick, in fact. The young nurse working the reception desk seems to be having trouble forming a coherent thought, she is so distracted by Edward's green eyes and charisma.

He allows his disappointment to show, deciding he might tell a small lie in order to get the information he needs. Edward leans down on her desk a bit, smiles at her just enough, and spins a tale of having just stopped into Ashland hoping to see his friend from way back. She falls over herself trying to write down the address fast enough. His wink as he takes the paper from her hand makes her tummy do flips.

Even with the nurse's detailed directions, Edward drives around the back roads for some time, searching for the right landmarks. He's about to jump out of his skin, being so close but not close enough. Finally, he hits on the right combination and pulls up a narrow drive, parking his Model T before an old farm house. And then he sits there, in his automobile, fatigued and anxious. He has expended so much time and energy seeking her out, Edward isn't quite sure what to do now that he's arrived at his journey's end. Presumably. He reminds himself that there is no guarantee that she's even here.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, sighs dramatically, and opens his eyes to find her standing on the covered porch, just ten feet away, staring at him as though it were he and not she that is something mysterious. His heart nearly leaps out of his chest when he sees her, and he grimaces when he notices his hands shaking as he goes to open the door. He moves slowly, instinctively afraid that she will bolt if he makes any sudden moves.

With the raised level of the porch and Edward's height, which is even taller than when they last parted, the two are at eye level. He presses back against the side of the car to give himself the strength he lacks, takes his time to feast his eyes upon her perfect form. She's dressed oddly, he notes with a smile, wearing men's trousers and an Oxford shirt speckled with paint. Her hair, too, is disconcertingly short, cropped close to her head, reminding him of Blake's chimney sweeps. Her eyes are honey gold, but he cannot, for the life of him, read her expression. Is she pleased to see him? Is she angry that he's invited himself to her home? He can't tell. It's not the passionate embrace and tear-stained reunion a little part of him had dared to hope for. But then, she never once conformed to his expectations.

The sixteen year-old boy she bid adieu is dead. In his place stands a man of eighteen, a man who has witnessed death, withstood suffering, gained compassion and wisdom. He is unaware of those changes in this moment of stretched silence, though; he looks at her and wants to fall at her feet in worship. Old habits die hard, after all. Still, it's a mark of his hard-won maturity that he can resist the urge, can see past her perfection and find the brokenness in her gaze.

"Yes." She is the one to speak, finally. It's a breath only, but he's watching her so closely, it's impossible to miss. His eyebrows quirk upwards in an endearing way, expressing his befuddlement. It makes her smile, and that is a radiant thing. "Whatever you ask," she says into the small space between them, a space that is shrinking as Edward finds the strength to push off the car and step gingerly towards her, "the answer is yes."

It's all the invitation he needs. Edward bounds up the final two steps, pulls her into his arms, and presses his smiling lips to hers.

* * *

**A/N: Continued thanks to all of you who have taken the time to read this story. I so appreciate your generous investment of time. I adore reading your thoughts about these two and the way I'm tweaking SM's world; I can't thank you enough for the encouragement and constructive criticism.  
**


	31. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

**Edward**

**Ashland, WI – December, 1919**

Sensation overtakes all rational thought as Edward feels the cool firmness of her lips on his own for the first time. Gentle and smooth, but not what he expected. Other. She is More. He wraps his warm arms around her unyielding frame, equal parts romance and an embarrassing need for stability as her honeyed breath makes him light headed. Perhaps she senses either or both, because she kisses him harder while she slowly pivots and gives Edward the exterior wall of the house to lean against.

They break apart, and he can't keep the grin off his face, even as he is panting for breath and praying _God, don't let me faint like a pansy-assed girl_. Her answering smile is breathtaking. Of course. Her hands sojourn up his sides, shoulders, neck, come to rest on his face, her thumbs stroking the warm red apples of his cheeks. She's still a mystery, though; even with her life-giving promise a moment ago, Edward can't read her. Is she surprised to see him? He can't tell, but he does like the fact that her skin is touching his, and it's hard to focus on anything else.

Well, until the clouds shift overhead, and the woman Edward's staring at is lost in a prism of light. They both freeze, him in wonder and her in fright. He thinks. He assumes it's fright that's got her rigid as stone. Now it's Edward that is running fingers over skin, watching the light refract onto his hand in rainbow hues. He has just enough good manners to prevent himself from speaking the thought aloud, but Edward's mind is blank except for a single phrase: _Holy Shit_.

"I can hear your heart beat," she states matter-of-factly. Her words make him hyper-aware of his pulse thudding in his ears; they both listen to it race. There are so many thoughts crowding his head in this moment, he's finding it nearly impossible to make sense of them. Ironic that the only certainty he can cling to is the very truth he has spent the last year fighting: he loves her. In light of that fact, all the other questions and doubts are diminished. Clearly Edward's romanticism is still alive and well. Or perhaps she's resuscitated it.

With that thought, his imagination conjures an image of himself from a year ago, empty and lost, a corpse really, wishing for oblivion. Isabella raising him from the dead – not a gruesome image to make Bram Stoker proud, looming over Edward with blood upon her lips – instead, she's like an angel of mercy, desperately administering chest compressions, calling him back to life. And that image brings Edward back to the theme that seems to be dominating his life: death and rebirth. Can the love he has for this woman really be strong enough to make sense of the supernatural? Is it naiveté or perhaps arrogance to think that his heart can grow so big? He closes his eyes, pulls her close again in an urgent embrace, holds her to him as though he were strong enough to keep her there.

Edward whispers into the sculpted beauty of her neck, "I'm terrified." The confession costs him a great deal of pride, but he can only tell her the truth now.

He worries for a moment that she will pull away, interpret his statement as a judgment on the danger she poses to his safety or sanity, but she surprises him once again. "Me too," she says so softly into his lapel, tucked into his chest and resting on the heartbeat that sings to her.

The sun plays hide and seek behind the quickly moving clouds, but they stand there for a long time, unmoving. Sometimes she glows in his arms, sometimes her precious face fades into an alabaster pallor. Edward holds her tight, regardless, and breathes her in.

Eventually, when Carlisle Cullen opens the front door, they step apart, though Edward's heart thrills at the fact that Isabella holds fast to his hand. Her brother greets him politely, invites Edward to enter, and they all sit, staring at one another a bit awkwardly, in a well-furnished parlor. There seems to be a silent exchange going on between them, but for Edward, the wonder of being in her presence is slowly being eclipsed by a longing for answers, and it's this fact that compels him to speak in a manner that some might consider reckless.

"I traveled to Italy, to Florence, after the war ended," Edward tells them abruptly, and this statement is met by an unnatural stillness in the room that confirms his gut-deep knowledge that Angelo Innocenti was on to something. Carlisle pastes a politely interested look upon his face, but it's too late – Edward was watching for that expression of panic or recognition that ghosted across it so quickly.

"Really?" Isabella asks, and her expression is far more knowing, almost a tiny bit smug? "We lived there for a time, Carlisle and I," she offers. The slightest arch of her brow seems to be taunting Edward, challenging him to speak his mind.

Edward determines to place his cards on the table in the hopes that they'll do the same. "Yes, I learned as much from Giuseppe Innocenti, the grandson of a painter, Angelo Innocenti," Edward aims for a nonchalance that falls a bit short, but it's enough to conjure a slow-spreading smile on Isabella's face. He wants to look across at her brother, see whether he's taking the news as well as she, but she holds Edward in thrall, and until her gaze releases his, he is pleasantly helpless.

"I've not heard that name in many years," she whispers, pulling him closer to her on the sofa with just the softness of her voice. There is the tiniest voice in Edward's mind ringing in alarm, warning him that he may be in a great deal of danger, but he ignores it determinedly. "He was a very talented painter," she says, so quietly, but with a piercing look on her face, "He taught me a great deal while I studied with him."

"You saved his life," the words Edward utters are also whispered. He means them to be an expression of faith in her, in all she can be, but there is also a bit of an accusation embedded at the heart of this statement. She's placed herself in danger, he fears, letting this man live to spread his stories, to paint his paintings.

"We did." Carlisle's voice startles Edward from the trance she's woven, reminds him of her brother's presence in the nearby wingback chair. "We value human life, Mr. Masen. Its preservation is at the heart of all we hold dear." Edward thinks Carlisle Cullen expects him to be surprised, but he can't feel anything but pleased.

"_Stregoni Benefici_, that is what the Florentines call you: Vampires who protect humanity from the cruelest of your own kind," this does startle them, and they seem to be speaking low and fast, so fast that Edward cannot catch their words. He tries to watch the emotions play upon Isabella's face, but she responds to stress now as she has in the past, retreating under a mask of cool indifference. Carlisle is more expressive, his intensity is palpable. When he breaks off from speaking to her and turns his eyes upon Edward, the young man can admit, to himself at least, that he feels afraid.

"What makes you believe that this…legend…refers to Miss Cullen and myself?" Isabella's hand slips into Edward's own, and he takes courage in that touch.

"I had seen a painting in France, of the Holy Family, but it was the two of you, I knew it at once. I searched for Innocenti, found his family, and his grandson had one last painting belonging to Angelo Innocenti, a painting his grandmother had hidden away. It was you," Edward says, turning to her with love in his eyes, "he called you _La Musa_. Giuseppe told me a tale his grandfather would share when deep in his cups, of the night he was saved from a horrible death by two creatures of impossible strength, speed, and mercy. _Stregoni Benefici_. I didn't really believe; even now, I don't completely. It's so hard to wrap my mind around, but another part of me knew at once. It's true, isn't it?"

Her only answer is a sigh, and Edward cannot tell whether it's one of regret or despair or love or something else altogether.

"And with whom have you shared this tale of adventure and the macabre, Mr. Masen?"

Edward can't help but feel a bit defensive as he answers, "No one." Isabella's head tilts a fraction and her brow arches speculatively. She moves their joined hands to his chest, taps the bone above his heart softly. Of course – she's reminding him that she, or they, can hear the lie in his heartbeat. Edward blows out a gust of breath. "Very well. My good friend from the army was with me in France when I saw the first painting. I stayed with him on my journey here to Ashland. He knows of Innocenti and the legend, but I doubt very much that he believes them to be true. Who would, if they'd not met you?" A terrible fear overtakes him, compels him to ask, "Is Martin in danger, because of what I've told him? Are you?"

Edward thinks Isabella's face may be trying to communicate sympathy, but again she's more Sphinx than Vampire, and he can't be sure what she's thinking.

"Possibly," Carlisle speaks the words gently, but they drop like a stone in Edward's gut. He must read the boy's panic, as he immediately goes on to explain, "our kind guard secrecy above all. Any threat to that secrecy is typically dealt with rather harshly. However, as you point out, your friend is unlikely to believe this far-fetched story you've been fed. And Vampire legends work in our favor, usually, as they are often full of misinformation and make it less likely for humans to recognize us for what we are. Indeed, a legend that suggests that Vampires might be benevolent, well, that probably works to the benefit of our kind as well, though I shudder to think what the less ethical members of our species might do with such a story.

"However, that does not account for the danger that _your_ knowledge of us places both you and us in, for you _do_, in fact, believe this legend, recognize our true nature. There are some in our world, Mr. Masen, who would find that fact very threatening, would not hesitate to use it to justify—"

"Enough." Isabella cuts him off abruptly, and though Edward cannot perceive any more whispered conversation between them, it's clear from the unflinching looks they shoot at one another that they disagree on something of importance, something Edward is not willing to let drop.

"Justify what?" He looks between them, waits for one of them to answer. Isabella wants to keep him from knowing something, which only convinces Edward that know it he must. "Isabella?"

She gasps and turns to stare at him. He realizes that he has never spoken her name in her presence, and there is a power in the naming. There must be, because she speaks, "They will use the knowledge to destroy me. If ever the Volturi, the ruling family of our kind, know of you, it will be the death of me."

"What? Because I'm human and you're…not?"

"Well, yes, that is a great crime, but more so because I love you. If they were ever to discover this fact, they could ask anything and I would give it, because I will not allow them to harm you, and they would dearly love to harm you, Edward."

It will sound melodramatic, I know, but Edward's vision literally spins under the onslaught of emotions in hearing her declare her love for him so abruptly, so matter-of-factly. In addition to this heady experience, his mind keeps replaying the sound of her voice caressing his name. His heart rate speeds impossibly, and a soft smile curls her lips as she places her hand over it, whispers a quiet "shhh." Desperate to avoid blacking out, he stares steadfastly at the ceiling, concentrates on his breathing, wishes he could either kiss her senseless or disappear. If those are his two choices, he knows which he prefers, and shoots a guilty glance in Carlisle's direction at having such thoughts about the man's sister, Vampire or not.

He's startled to find that Mister Cullen is gone, has slipped out of the room silently. A chilly finger placed upon his jawline turns him away from the empty chair, and he finds himself lost in the limitless depths of her amber eyes.

"You love me." It's not a question, though there is a part of Edward that finds it almost impossible to believe. Apparently her unorthodox resurrection is easier to accept than the idea that she might return his feelings. "You love me as I love you."

"I do. God help us both."

"Amen," he whispers, and they share a little smile. Eyes move downward, begin to fixate on lips, and the lovers move wordlessly towards one another, sharing a kiss that neither will forget. When they part, it's with a sense that something has been promised, a covenant has been made.

With the intimacy that's sprung up between them, Edward finds it remarkably easy to open his heart to her, share the depth of joy he finds he's capable of feeling, knowing that she feels the same. They talk for hours, at first happy stories of their love, recounting their first encounters with one another and revealing their different perspectives. He laughs at how ridiculous he must have seemed to her; she cringes when he describes his memory of their first conversation outside the theater. He doesn't mind now that she was tempted to kill him; secure in her love for him and resilient as only a nineteen year old young man can be, Edward boasts that he was clearly too alluring for his own good.

Eventually the conversation turns to more painful topics. Isabella confirms Edward's fear that poor Richard Dorset may have been murdered; she suspects the Volturi stumbled on her presence in Chicago, killed him to send a message of warning. "It's hard to believe that it was a coincidence, his death coming just after he'd been in my presence." They both stare at one another silently, thinking the same thought: it could have just as easily been Edward. The idea that someone he knew, cared for even, could be disposed of so callously by these ruling Vampires fills Edward with hatred but sobers him as well, brings a reality to Isabella's earlier warning that his knowledge of the truth places them both in peril.

Eventually Edward tries to articulate his experiences in the war. He has difficulty putting it into words, but the veil of her mystery lifts for a moment, and he stares into her face with the full conviction that she _knows_, that she _understands_. It's a painful moment for both of them, this recognition of devastation and disillusionment reflected in the face of the person they each love most in the world. She moves faster that his sight can follow, throws her arms around him. Startled, he responds in kind, wonders if he's comforting her or the other way around, decides it doesn't matter. He rocks her gently, rubs his hand over her back in a soothing manner that his mother used to use on him when he was nursing yet another scrape or broken bone as a child.

"You don't know, Edward, you don't know what I've done," her voice comes out in broken sobs.

"It is all in the past now," he promises, "we shall face it together." He thinks of the contents of her farewell letter, of her confessions that shocked him, broke the pedestal on which he'd placed her, left his image of her shattered at his feet. "I was foolish when we met, but I have grown, and, you must believe me, so has the love I bear for you."

She pulls back from him slightly, looks up at him with disbelief. He's surprised to see her face is dry; he had thought to find her blotchy and weeping. He thinks he might see regret shimmering across the surface of her face, but the confidence that he could read her has fled. "I wish it were that," she whispers, "for that would be bad enough. But since we parted…Edward, you cannot imagine what I have done."

"Then speak it aloud, and I will not have to imagine. Do not allow this burden to press down upon your heart any longer, Isabella." He pulls her into his embrace, knowing instinctively that she'll not be able to tell this tale when looking at him directly. He is right.

Tearless but broken, she tells him of her trip to China, of the choice she faced and the decision she made. His head spins with the reality she dwells in, but he focuses resolutely on the woman in his arms, one who is impossibly strong and yet indescribably fragile.

"She haunts me, Edward. I keep thinking about her, wondering if I made the right choice. It's like she's inside me now, whispering in my head." He pulls her impossibly closer, wonders how to exorcise the ghost of a Vampire. He has only one thing to offer, and he prays it's enough.

He pulls her far enough from himself that she's forced to face him, to see the unfettered love in his eyes. "Isabella Cullen, I love you more than my own life. I do not require perfection in you, and the fact that you love me at all attests to the fact that you've accepted my limitations. Will you not afford yourself an equal measure of grace?" Holding her hand, running his fingers over the scars he now knows are there, Edward slips to the floor before her, leans upon one knee and asks, "I offer you all that I am, if you will have me. Will you marry me, Isabella?"

Her face is so solemn, measuring him as he waits almost-patiently for her answer. He tries hard to keep his breathing and heartbeat steady. Any anxiety he feels is unnecessary, however, as she leans down and kisses him softly. "Yes," she whispers, pulling him off the floor and into her arms, "I told you before, anything you ask of me, the answer is yes."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you a million times over for reading this story. I'd write it even if no one were reading, but it's so amazing to receive your feedback and reactions, letting me know what worked and what didn't. My teaching load has been such that I've not had much opportunity to write back and express my gratitude, but I am truly grateful for your time and thoughtfulness.**

**I was pleasantly surprised, as well, to learn that this story has been nominated for a Vintage Vampie Award (Best Historical Vamp Fic). I've already discovered several amazing AU fics I'd not heard of by reading through some of the various nominees, so I recommend checking out the site. I've put a link on my profile.**

**Many blessings,**

**jackiejones  
**


	32. Chapter 28

Recap: The Volturi maneuver Bella (remember, in this story, her shield becomes more of a mirror in times of stress) to eliminate a rogue vampire in China, whose ability to control the talents of others and lack of value for human life/civilization threatens both the Volturi regime and the larger world that Bella and Carlisle value. Edward enlists in WWI, serves as an army ambulance driver, then remains behind in Europe, where he finds a portrait of Bella and Carlisle that leads him to Florence and the myth of the _stregoni benefici. _Returning to America, Edward discovers his own maturation and determines to track down the Cullens, which he does in Ashland,Wisconsin. Bella and Edward are reunited, confess their love, and Edward proposes to Isabella. She says yes.

**Chapter 28**

**Ashland, WI – June, 1920**

Bella's and Edward's ideas of _yes_ turn out to be slightly different. The subtext of his _yes_ goes something like "howabout tomorrow?" Bella's idea of _yes_ seems to be more along the lines of "eventually". Edward tries to point out that she's working with a longer time frame than he has access to, but this argument works against him, and he starts suspecting she's stalling as a result of their relative age difference – a gap that he has not yet gotten the full details on.

"When?" Edward asks her, for the seventh time, he thinks. It may be the eighth. It's his third day in Ashland, but he's adapting his expectations, recognizing that he is in for a long siege and may need to redeploy his resources.

The two are walking together side by side, so he can only see her in profile, but Edward has reconciled himself to the fact that no amount of staring intently into her bewitching eyes is going to yield an easy understanding of Isabella's thoughts or emotions. However, he may have just caught a bit of an eye roll. It doesn't take a mind reader to translate that sentiment.

"Edward." She says his name with what he interprets as a mixture of exasperation and fondness. A less secure man might find it condescending; Edward chooses not to. Resolutely. "When it's right. Which isn't now. I love you. That will not – _cannot_ – change. We've only just found one another again – let's crawl before we walk."

"But why walk when we can fly?" It's out of his mouth before he can think twice, and even as he's saying it, he is cringing at how ridiculous he sounds. Like a lovestruck fool. They look at one another, then both start laughing. Her laughter is magical, and Edward thinks it well worth the gentle humiliation that has called it into being. He wants to point out that the Edward from _before_ wasn't really capable of laughing at himself, but supposes that that kind of self-congratulation ought to also fall into the province of the 'old Edward', so he lets the observation go un-noted.

"Isabella Marie Cullen," he's still smiling broadly as he stops and takes her hand, tugging her close. She has to tilt her head back to look into his eyes, a fact he loves because it makes it so very natural to brush the back of his fingers along her delicate face, cheek to chin, and hold her still for a sweet kiss. Edward speaks to her then, still leaning over, his lips just inches from hers, "I may be fragile and human, but the love I have for you is eternal. Time won't change it. Nor will any shocking revelations you have yet to disclose."

Her breath is sweet and intoxicating as she smiles and whispers back, "Then waiting a bit longer won't harm it."

"I would wait for you forever, Isabella, but I need you to be honest about the reason. Do you distrust my feelings? Do you think I'm just some silly boy indulging an infatuation? I assure you that this is far from the case." There's nothing boyish about the feelings she conjures in him, and his experiences in the war, they've taught Edward that life is short and ought not to be taken for granted.

It requires a great deal of patience on his part to submit to the careful inspection Isabella makes of Edward's face, perhaps sampling the air for hints of adrenaline and listening closely to his heartbeat. In the few days he has spent with her and her brother, he's noticed this tendency towards alert stillness when they're thinking deeply about something. It's a frequent reminder that Isabella is intrinsically different, _more_.

She squeezes Edward's hands gently and presses an ephemeral kiss to his cheek, then replies quietly, "It's so hard for me to trust this, to believe that this is real and lasting. It isn't because you're human, though I don't think we can ever overestimate the significance of that difference between us. It isn't because you're young, though you are still so very young, despite all you've experienced recently. It is simply because I don't know how to do…this. Be a part of a whole."

He absorbs her answer for the space of a heartbeat (his, of course) then gathers her in his arms, letting his effusive love swing them around in a circle. Setting her back down, Edward can't help but grin at her. Isabella's afraid. That he can understand; that Edward can handle.

* * *

**December 1920**

Growing up in Chicago, Edward thought he knew what a cold winter entailed, but there's a bitter edge to December here in Wisconsin that he's wholly unprepared for. Blowing steamy warm breath through the knitted gloves protecting his fingers, Edward starts to smirk at Carlisle, thinking _No warm breath for your cold fingers_, but then realizes that the vampire beside him doesn't feel the cold, so if it's a competition, Edward must concede the contest.

The two men are walking a frosty path from the gravel road to the home of one of Carlisle's older patients, now bedridden and in need of his care. Edward's boot heal strikes an uneven surface, coated in slick ice, but before he can fall unceremoniously on his backside, Carlisle's hand has whipped out and steadied him. Behind Edward's scarf, he mutters an embarrassed "Thanks," and focuses resolutely on the old farmhouse before them.

Carlisle compassionately dismisses the moment, distracting his charge. "Tell me again what Mister Cartwright suffers from." It's not as though Carlisle's eidetic memory has magically disappeared; he's quizzing Edward on the medical history of his patients. For the last three months, Edward has been working for Carlisle, _apprenticing _as he calls it, though Edward doubts that the medical training the older man is imparting comes with a legal license. Cullen University of Vampiric Healing perhaps? Still, Carlisle's approval seems to be enough for the good people of Ashland, as no one questions the legitimacy of a young man tagging along after him as he cares for the citizens of the town. They all smile and wink, greeting Edward as "Miss Isabella's Young Man." There are worse things to be.

Edward's apprenticeship began incidentally with an invitation to visit Carlisle's medical office one quiet afternoon in September. Edward was grateful for a momentary distraction – Isabella had been gone hunting, and Edward felt at loose ends. Tagging along, Edward watched as Carlisle was peering into little Joshua Perkins's ear (he'd pushed a bean deep inside) when word came in that there had been an accident nearby – a driver had lost control, swerving his automobile into a low stone fence and injuring his passenger. Suddenly Edward's experience as an ambulance driver made him valuable, allowing Carlisle an extra set of knowledgeable hands to staunch blood and apply pressure where necessary. There was a vibrancy in those moments, a sense of purpose that was intoxicating for Edward. He wouldn't have asked, wouldn't have wanted to impose, but Carlisle must have sensed how Edward needed something to do, something more than _waiting_.

Turns out patience is not Edward's best quality, and Isabella seems bent on seeing how far he can stretch.

Edward focuses back on the situation at hand (both the icy pathway and the question his mentor has asked), rather than slipping into a brooding contemplation of Isabella's reticence. "Mister Horace Cartwright, age eighty-six. Suffered a broken femur roughly forty years ago, an injury that was poorly set and has resulted in chronic pain, particularly in the last decade. Following his wife's passing six years ago, Horace has seen a steady decline in health, struggling with chronic bronchial infections and, most recently, a case of gout."

Carlisle touches his hand briefly to Edward's shoulder, and the two pause and face one another. He moves his superfluous scarf, revealing the grin that practically shouts _Well Done!_ Edward flushes with pride, because even if he feels foolish in craving it, Carlisle's affirmation fills the younger man with a warm satisfaction. Loving Isabella comes naturally to Edward, and there's a confidence about it that is born from the long, difficult path they trod in coming together, but learning from Carlisle how to care for the sick, this is a talent Edward didn't anticipate discovering within himself.

"And what course of treatment is best in this case?" Carlisle is a good teacher – infinitely patient and compassionate, both with Edward and his patients.

"We will soak the affected appendage in a bath of cold water, then apply a poultice of Jimson leaves and powdered Elm bark. Is that right?" The thought occurs to Edward that being a doctor is a heavy responsibility – what if he were to get it wrong? It's all very well for Carlisle – his brain is a steel trap, but Edward's human one is liable to error.

"That's right. Trust yourself, you're doing well," he affirms. It's obvious as Edward looks at him that he's being honest, not just puffing the younger man up with false praise. His countenance is one of openness. It's a face Edward can trust, _does _trust, so much so that he suddenly finds himself asking the question that has been circling through his mind for the last six months.

"Am I doing this right?" Carlisle reads the heightened stress in Edward's tone, posture, and heartbeat. He stops, waits. It's clear to him that Edward is no longer talking about how to treat Mr. Cartwright's gout. After a deep breath, Edward continues, "Am I right in waiting—for Isabella? Not that I wouldn't wait, that isn't what I mean, really, but am I _doing it right_? Ought I to be more assertive? More patient? It's just that sometimes I am near her, and she's so _alive_; but then other moments, it's as though I'm holding an empty husk. She can be so…_elusive_."

Edward hopes to see a whole host of emotions in Carlisle's face – recognition, empathy, but most of all a willingness to share the wisdom he must have gleaned in spending nearly a hundred years in companionship with the woman Edward loves. _Please, _his vibrant green eyes beg_, please tell me what to do_. Surely after all this time, Carlisle can provide a Rosetta Stone of sorts when it comes to Isabella.

Despite the bond the two men have forged over the last three months, Edward understands implicitly that his mentor's true loyalty lies with Isabella, so it's more than a bit surprising when he sees in Carlisle's face that the older man means to give him a real answer. As much as Edward had hoped for guidance, he'd prepared himself for disappointment.

"I changed her, Edward, because I couldn't _not_. I couldn't let her die, even though I suspected at the time that it was her wish to do so." Carlisle pauses, and Edward's gut tightens at just the thought of Isabella near death. But the older man's tone is lighter when he continues, "To be honest, I was terrified, as the transformation came to an end, that she would open her newborn eyes and tear me limb from limb," they both chuckle quietly at Carlisle's confession, because they both know the woman is fierce enough to have accomplished it, if she'd had a mind to do so. "Instead, she took to her new life as a duck to water. But understand – though we speak of a change in becoming what we are, in some ways it is more like an intensification. Bella's strengths – her wit and intelligence, her stubbornness and determination, even her beauty, these qualities existed in the Isabella Swan I knew in London in the 1830's, but so too did Bella's weaknesses—her impulsiveness, her tendency to see the world from only her perspective, her proclivity for self-martyrdom on behalf of those she loves—these carried over, became permanent even, and that fact terrifies your Isabella more than anything in the world, short of losing you.

"I've done all I know to do, been her friend, guardian, and brother for a century, and will remain so for as long as I exist, but all those roles are limited, leave her at the core of who she is unchanged and alone, still afraid that she'll somehow repeat her mistakes or find a way to make larger ones. You, Edward, you have altered her very being. Bella has to find her bearings again, now that you've become her True North, and though she's more stubborn than most, every day I see her changing, hoping, trusting. Have faith, you're doing it _exactly right_."

Carlisle takes a deep breath, scrutinizes Edward's red nose and ears, along with the tears congregating on Edward's eyelashes, and claps the young man on the arm. "Now, what do you say we see to old Mr. Cartwright, hmm? And perhaps we ought to pick a more hospitable location for our next heart to heart, one that won't leave you with frostbite." Something between a desperate laugh and a cough escapes Edward, and they both turn and make their way up to the front porch of the farmhouse, Carlisle with grace, Edward with a care that belies his human gait.

Later that afternoon, after they poultice up Horace Cartwright's foot and teach his granddaughter how to repeat the procedure, Carlisle and Edward are sitting before a cozy fire in his home office. For propriety's sake, and as a gesture of permanence which Edward hoped would communicate his seriousness to Isabella, he had bought a small house in town months ago; however, his waking hours are nearly all spent either here or in the medical office in town. Carlisle is reading through a recently published article on a treatment for diabetes; he seems very excited over a recent discovery of a hormone called insulin, his whole face radiating fascination and excitement. Meanwhile, Edward spends his time staring at the fire, ruminating on Carlisle's earlier confession, perspective, and advice.

Edward doesn't want to interrupt his friend, but there are so many questions he wants to ask, questions he knows he really ought to ask Isabella, but it would be so much less…_hazardous_ to ask Carlisle. With him, Edward needn't dread that each word he speaks will draw the curtain across her features, place Edward decidedly outside her defenses.

"You're fretting, Edward." Her voice is warm honey, but it startles Edward a bit guiltily from his contemplation of ways to circumvent her emotional fortifications. He throws an accusatory glance at Carlisle to let him know that he ought to have warned Edward of Isabella's arrival, but Carlisle's raised eyebrows and smug smile deflect his feigned-hostility with a simple _You chose her_. And Edward did; he does; he will, always.

Weary from the mental circles he has been running, Edward rises from his chair and folds her into a welcoming embrace. Her hair, cropped so short, tickles his chin as he rests it upon her head, nestled upon Edward's beating heart. Simultaneously, the lovers draw in deep breaths, full of the scent of one another. That first deep breath of her sweet floral scent after being apart makes Edward a bit light headed, and she chuckles quietly as he readjusts to gravity's hold. Edward smiles cheekily down at her and kisses the tip of her nose, whispers "missed you" into her ear, then draws her by the hand to the sofa nearest the fire.

He knows that no amount of cuddling will distract Isabella from her earlier observation if she's determined to pursue the matter, but for now she seems content to settle into the circle of warmth created by Edward's arms and the crackling fire in the hearth. Edward's heart swells with joy as he absorbs the serene domesticity of the scene. _Nearly perfect_, he thinks, glancing at her bare left hand. For just the smallest fraction of a second, Edward imagines himself at the center of a room full of rambunctious, copper headed boys and angel-faced, coffee haired girls, with his beautiful wife at his side. He's had that idea before, but each time, he quickly bids it farewell and clings gratefully to the impossible that is somehow possible for him at present.

"I saw Mrs. Honeychurch when I stopped in at the market on my way back," Isabella's voice is soft, lulling Edward deeper into his cocoon of contentment. He smiles as he thinks of the busy-body she's referring to; most of the town's folk allow the Cullens to keep to themselves, treat them as benevolent aristocrats – better to watch from afar than to mingle with. Not Mrs. Honeychurch – she swoops on Isabella every chance she gets, determined to meddle the young woman into a more active social life. Isabella hears Edward's amusement and continues in a tone of mild exasperation, "Indeed. I wasn't in that store twenty seconds before I was cornered by the old woman and plied with small town gossip. Why she thinks I need to know how many doilies are in Mildred Simmons's trousseau is a mystery. I only managed to get away," Edward can't withhold his guffaw at the image of his _vampire_ fiancé being held captive by a seventy-four year old woman weighing no more than one hundred pounds, "Don't laugh! I finally escaped by agreeing that we would all attend a dinner she's hosting for the new school teacher out in White River. War widow, she says, and expecting a baby, Esme Turner. The dinner is set for next week," at this point she turns to Carlisle, who has heretofore avoided drawing her attention to his enjoyment of her quandary, with one brow arched high, "and Carlisle Cullen, don't think you're getting out of going. If I have to go and eat human food, or at least seem to, then so do you!"

Edward can't contain it any longer, laughing loudly at the grimace on both of their faces. The speed with which their glares are redirected at him only makes Edward laugh harder.

"Oh," Isabella's voice takes on a false note of boredom, "and I spoke with the Minister. He's agreed to perform our nuptials two weeks from Saturday, if that meets with your approval."

For one single beat of his heart, Edward is stunned into silence. Then he's leaping off the sofa, Isabella still cradled in his arms, running a victory lap around the room and releasing a loud whoop of joy. Plunking back down where he sat when his world aligned itself perfectly, Edward's grin is infectious and the three are all laughing loudly. The lovers have to temporarily unhinge their smiles as Edward cups her face close and leans in for a kiss. "I approve," he's finally able to breathe, "I approve whole-heartedly."

* * *

**A/N: Well, I can't adequately express my appreciation for the fact that anyone's still reading this story. The last five months have been the most difficult of my career, and I'm grateful to have made it through with some of my sanity intact. The good news is, I'm able to get back to writing, and it's my intention to finish this story (about 5 more chapters) before I have to head back to school in August. As ever, I'd so appreciate any feedback you're willing to give, and thank you again for reading. -jj**


	33. Chapter 29

A/N: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended. The Holy Sonnet by Jonne Donne used in this chapter is replicated in its original, archaic spelling, as I believe that is most likely the version with which Bella would be familiar.

**Chapter 29**

**Bella**

**Ashland, WI – January, 1921**

Isabella Cullen, once Isabella Swan, has lived to see many events that, in her human life, she would not have thought possible, but none so difficult to believe as this: her wedding day. Though many of her human memories have, blessedly, faded over time, much residual self-loathing remains. It seems to Bella that dresses of pure white silk and lace were not made for such as her. And yet, somehow Carlisle's faith and Edward's love have served to baptize her, make her new again. She hopes. The woman staring back at her in the mirror could actually have a happy life, she thinks.

Standing before the small mirror in the church's bride's room and adjusting her veil for the hundredth time, Bella tries to conjure up a memory of her aunt, the only human mother she ever knew. She thinks about what it might be like to have her aunt here, fussing over her and crying tears of joy, but the loss of the woman's warmth and love is an old wound now, it hardly stings at all. However, summoning her aunt's memory, even for a moment, sets free a whole host of specters from her past as Bella finds it impossible to reach into her life _before _and pluck out just one piece of it – her aunt is inextricably tied to all that came after, memories Bella finds particularly potent today, of all days:

_The heady feel of power as her aunt's step-son watches her with passion in his gaze; the devastation of being cast off, labeled a whore and discarded as one; the misery and debilitating self-pity consuming her as she languishes in the poorhouse, part of her certain her surroundings are nothing more than a particularly terrifying dream; the numbness and accompanying self-loathing at her little baby's silent expiration and the realization that nothing can save her from the pit of hell to which she has descended; her first pathetic attempt at trading her body for a few coins; the disgusting sense of gratitude when she earns a bed in that rotting bordello; the bliss of oblivion she seeks in the taste of too-sweet laudanum and the corresponding despair she feels each time she wakes to face that damned stain mocking her from the ceiling above her bed. _

Luckily, the sequence of self-destruction is subsumed in the fire of her transformation and crystal clear memories she's made, first with Carlisle, and now with Edward. It's not that the good erases the bad, more like the bad is miraculously redeemed by the good. Bella does not hate the mistakes she has made any less, but she has finally arrived at the point where, staring at herself on her wedding day, she cannot deny that her mistakes were pivotal in bringing her to her present position.

Carlisle's voice echoes in Bella's mind, and she rolls her eyes at her reflection just as she would if he were there, expounding on one of his favorite Bible verses: _"But as for you, ye thought evil against me, but God meant it unto good; to bring it to pass, as it is this day…" _If there was ever a day to make the suffering of the past meaningful, then this day, in which she will bind herself forever to Edward, must be that day.

It is at that satisfying moment of introspection that Irina and Kate come bustling into the room, smiling and chattering on about how handsome the groom looks. Their grins have the slightest edge of desperation to them, and Bella instinctively knows they too are thinking of loved ones lost: Sasha, their mother whom they still mourn, and Tanya, so recently ripped from them. It's Kate, who is the most frank, who pulls Bella to the chaise lounge and raises the topic she needs to discuss with them, but is incredibly embarrassed to speak of.

"Bella," Kate says as though the bride might spook at any time (and exiting through the window is looking pretty tantalizing at this moment), "Bella, Irina and I want you to know that you can ask us anything." Irina hovers over her sister's shoulder, and it's clear they all know what Kate is speaking of: sex, with a human man.

She continues, "It took us many years of feeding only on animals before we were able to make love to a man without killing him. We want to be sure you know the risks involved."

Ugh. The reality of talking to them about this is so much worse than in Bella's imagination. Her own colorful sexual history is at the top of the list of things she avoids talking (and thinking) about at all costs. As in, the last time she had a conversation about sex, it was with Carlisle, her doctor, and Bella_ was human_. Still, it's kind of them to broach the subject, and Bella knows they have her best interests at heart. The three women have never really bonded, but she supposes they are as close to female confidantes as Bella is likely to find this side of death.

"Well," Bella hedges, "I'm sure the mechanics haven't changed much over the last century."

Irina smiles indulgently; if it were just her present, the deflection might have been successful, but Kate is Kate, and she's going to ignore Bella's discomfort (for her own good, of course). "The mechanics of insert Tab A into Slot B haven't changed, Bella, but _you_ have. First of all, your body temperature is ambient, so you're going to feel cold to Edward if you don't take that into consideration. Cold doesn't exactly encourage a strong…_showing_…for a man, if you understand me. At least the first time, you might want to consider ways to counteract this fact – when the time comes, flinching is the last thing you want him to do." Irina sits by and nods at her sister's proffered wisdom.

"Second, I'm sure you've already considered this, but it's paramount that you feed before you fuck." Kate rolls her eyes at Bella's own instinctive flinching, but it's damn near impossible to escape the Victorian lessons of shame from her childhood, especially _because_ she was forced to flout them when living. Kate continues, "I don't want to pry, Bella, and you've never been particularly communicative, but from what I've observed, you've not taken a lover since your transformation. And if that's the case, you've never experienced the heights of pleasure you're likely to know as a vampire. But it's at that moment of climax that you'll be most vulnerable to your instincts, and Bella, your instinct _will _be to feed. So long as Edward is human, you're going to have to be careful, almost self-dividing as you experience pleasure and yet hold your thirst back from consuming him completely." Bella had suspected this to be the case; the pleasure of feeding, even from a fierce animal like a mountain lion, is somewhat sensual. Still, having the suspicion confirmed makes her wonder again at the wisdom of this step she is poised to take.

Irina must see a growing fear in her face because the woman places a gentle hand on Kate's shoulder and offers reassurance, "Bella, it's true that my sisters and I made many mistakes before we became adept at sustaining the lives of our human lovers, and there is certainly a level of risk involved in having Edward as your first partner after your rebirth, but, Bella, remember that none of us cared for the men we bedded as you do for your Edward. He is your mate, your other half. You should be careful, and we want our experience to help you be so, but it is not our intent to frighten you away from his bed. Truly," here she smiled conspiratorially at Kate, "we have often wondered at your choice to remain celibate for so long. But it has been your choice, as is this. Embrace it." The two succubae embrace Bella warmly, and a feeling of sisterhood wholly new to her bubbles up inside. She squeezes them briefly in return, expressing her thanks in the only way she knows how.

After this impromptu tête-à-tête, the women pass affirmative judgment on Bella's wedding ensemble and make a hasty exit. A gentle knock follows shortly after, followed by Carlisle's handsome face peeking in to see if his 'sister' is ready. His expression is slightly chagrined, so Bella knows without asking that he caught at least the end of the Denali coven's unsolicited advice, but her hasty prayers are answered when he chooses not to comment.

Instead, he stands before Bella and, with infinite care, folds her veil in place, cocooning her in filmy lace. His hands rest on Bella's shoulders, and for a moment Bella feels a spike of panic, the compulsion to run. Thoughts of the likelihood of this all ending in disaster leave her shaking. Carlisle seems to read her fear, and leans close to whisper, "'Ye have put off the old man with his deeds and have put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge.' Oh, Isabella, there's no need to return to your old ways, for you are _remade_." And in his eyes, she sees the truth of his words. Within the church's sanctuary, the melody played upon the piano changes. It's time.

Bella picks up the simple bouquet of flowers and walks beside Carlisle to join Edward at the front of the church. Walking down the aisle, vision trained upon Edward's gleaming green eyes, Bella is still able to catalogue her environment, noting each of the guests present. A small grouping, the Cullens had included just a handful of humans from town, mostly so as to dilute the conspicuous nature of the vampires present in the minds of the two human women whose presence is essential: Edward's cousin, Meg, and the new teacher in town, Esme.

Meg's presence is a wedding gift precious to both Edward and Bella. Small and delicate, Meg's breathing is labored as she rises and turns to face the bride. When she arrived yesterday, an unlooked for blessing, Edward's eyes had filled with the tears Bella could not shed. Bella had sent a letter to Meg as soon as the couple had set a date for their wedding, but she had felt little hope that her invitation would be accepted, given what Edward had revealed months ago about Meg's sullen rejection of Bella's supply of books. Still, she was all the family Edward has left, and Bella was determined to make every effort to restore their relationship. Truly, Bella fears that Meg's time with them is limited, as the young woman struggles to breathe and her eyes loom preternaturally large in her too-thin face. Still, as Bella moves down the aisle, Meg's expression is one of joy. She appears genuinely glad to stand as witness to Bella and Edward's happiness.

So too does Esme Turner, who has become a quick fixture in the Cullen landscape over the last two weeks. Upon meeting her, or to be accurate – meeting her for a second time - at Mrs. Honeychurch's dinner, Carlisle was completely smitten. Esme Platt, as she once was, had been a lovely girl, according to Carlisle (who spoke to Bella later that evening in a dumbstruck tone that made her want to giggle) when he had set the young girl's broken leg many years ago. Now, eight months pregnant and widowed, she is all he can see in the world. The more time Bella spends with Esme, the more she suspects that the kind school teacher was hiding something. Bella recognizes the way Esme startles so easily and seems to position herself always just beyond arm's reach. Still, it was obvious that she remembered Carlisle from the way that her heart had galloped and her cheeks were stained crimson when Mrs. Honeychurch renewed their acquaintance, and Bella hoped that whatever haunts Esme might with time be lost in the love she feels is sure to blossom between the doctor and his long-ago patient. Today, Bella notes with a pleased smile, that, as far as sweet Esme is concerned, Carlisle seems to have stolen the show. The siblings step down the aisle to the wedding march's strong cadence, but Carlisle's gaze feasts on Esme's glowing face, even as Bella moves in time to the heartbeat calling her home.

Edward's beauty makes Bella's cold heart ache. And it is not just his physical self that appeals, though it's a constant challenge to keep her fingers from his skin; Edward is beautiful inside and out. His blood weaves tendrils of temptation about her form, but its power has long since ceased to hold her in thrall. Somehow the most unlikely of forces seems to have liberated Bella: love.

As Carlisle gently presses her hand, then moves to sit beside Esme, Isabella Cullen turns to face her beloved. Looking at this man, this remarkable man who has altered the very foundation of her world, Bella's mind echoes with the words of John Donne's Holy Sonnet.

_That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend_

_Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new._

The ironies of their love are not new to her, but standing before their family and community, pledging their troth to one another, Bella is overwhelmed anew at all the ways their bond defies the rules of nature. How is it that she, the natural predator, is the one pursued? How is it that she, so fiercely aloof for so long, can find a love that brings only freedom?

As Edward slips his ring upon Bella's finger, she can hardly contain the emotion welling up within her. She is his, as he is hers. They are one, and nothing – neither his mortality nor her past – will come between them now. He peels her gossamer veil away, placing it so gently behind her, and in an act so intimate, Bella will swear she feels a phantom blush, his fingertips brush down her cheek and jawbone, tip her chin upwards, and their lips meet in a chaste kiss. Warmth infuses her from each point of contact, and her body echoes the thrumming heartbeat pounding in his chest, allowing her heart to beat again even for just a moment.

_Yet dearely 'I love you,' and would be loved faine,_

_But am betroth'd unto your enemie:_

_Divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe;_

But the feeling lasts for more than a single moment, recurring and overwhelming Bella with the sense of her own resurrected pulse later that night when bride and groom consummate their love, a love that refuses to cower from death. He knows what he risks, that every breath could be his last; she knows what she risks, that every breath could be his last, and they both know it's she who risks more.

It's that type of selfless love that brings Edward and Bella here, to this shedding of doubt, shedding of clothes, to this reawakening, remaking.

Bella feels alive in a way she knows she never experienced when her heart beat on its own – this simultaneous lightness of spirit and powerful anchoring to the earth. Skin warmed from the scalding bath she just exited, she runs her hands over the planes of Edward's skin, barely perceiving a difference in temperature between their two bodies. There's a return to Eden in this moment, being naked and unashamed. She discovers new powers of self-control within herself as she feels her world contract to a pinpoint of focus, which is located at the union of their two bodies. The rhythm that pulls his hips against her firm flesh unconsciously echoes that sound she loves best in the world, its pace increasing even as the tension deep in her belly grows tighter, a tension delicious in its promise and wholly unlike anything she's experienced. And she realizes that there's a great deal about this moment that she's never known before: this sensation of being secure in his arms, touched with a gentleness he's saved just for her, listening to him whisper sweet words that he'd once thought lost. Their oneness is embodied in their act of lovemaking.

Pleasure whips through Bella's body with an unexpected potency, panic riding right behind as Bella fights frantically within herself to redirect the instinctive lurch to quench the burning thirst clawing at her control. Edward's body doesn't help matters, as her climax precipitates his own, and he arches up, baring the glorious column of his throat. But as the waves of pleasure slowly ebb and the lovers stare into one another's eyes, there will be no blood sacrifice on the altar of their marriage bed tonight; instead, there's a feeling of a cloud of holiness descending upon them, filling the air they breathe with the tangible presence of their love. Into the sound of their joined heartbeat and ragged breaths, Bella whispers the final words of Donne's sonnet:

_Take mee to you, imprison mee, for _

_Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,_

_Nor ever chaste, except you ravish mee._

* * *

**A/N: Just want to say that I'm sorry it's taking so long to update this story - I hit a bit of writer's block but seem to have pushed through it finally. I'm working to finish up the last handful of chapters and will post chap 30 when I've finished them so that you can be assured of a more regular updating schedule when things get rolling again. The story will be finished - that I promise!**


	34. Chapter 30

**Mini Recap: Bella and Edward are on their honeymoon. Remember, she's a vampire; he's human. (Chap 28 has a full plot recap if you need it)  
**

**Chapter 30**

**Bella**

**Lake Louise, Canada – January 29-February 6, 1921**

Isabella Swan/Cullen/Masen's nature is etched in stone, so you must forgive her if, even in her happiest moments, a part of Bella remains rooted in the lessons of her childhood, and the one lesson that remains fixed after all these years is that happiness is fleeting. So, she waits with bated breath for trouble to loom large on the horizon. After all, it always has before. How else can she account for the gut level certainty she feels, even as she lies, counting Edward's sleep-soothed exhalations of breath, that this peace is to be short lived? Try as she may, Bella cannot suppress the certainty that this joy of theirs will be transitory. All she can do is seize each moment granted as a gift, knowing another might not come.

Edward's breathing changes rhythm, indicating that he is soon to wake. Bella watches with fascination as his eyelashes flutter on his pink cheeks, as expressions flit across his face. She smiles as she catches the very instant that he recalls where he is, what they have shared. His heartbeat picks up to double time and his breath stutters for just a moment as his eyes open in wonder. She can't help it – she launches herself through the small space separating them, pressing her lips to his with an answering awe. They've done it: the impossible.

Bella had feared that her body would chill him if she let him sleep too near, but Edward is a remarkable furnace, doing more to change his bride's temperature than she does to change his. Now, that furnace burns hotter as he responds to her kiss, rolls her beneath him, and telegraphs his adoration in every move, every look, every word. Yes, these moments of fullness are precious indeed, and even if God or Fate or Whoever it is that doles them out seems to be rather stingy, Bella is determined to live in the present, not waste them worrying over what might come.

Just how long they can expect to dwell in this newlywed bliss is apparently on Edward's mind as well, for as they lie pressed against one another, satiated for the time being, his husky voice breaks the silence, saying, "I'm rather surprised to still be myself this morning, you know."

He's spooned around her, so he can't see Bella's smile. "A bit boastful, don't you think? The lovemaking was rather transcendent – but did you imagine it would take you to a higher plane of consciousness or something?" He may not witness her smile, but he can feel the laughter fighting its way out, and he responds by trying to tickle her. Bella squirms away, but it's mostly for his pride's sake, as his human fingers aren't likely to achieve much against her granite-like flesh – still, she tries to spare his ego as often as she can. Now the laughter can't be suppressed any longer, by either of them, and they're lying on the bed, just laughing at nothing and everything at once.

When he finally catches his breath, Edward props his head in his hand and says, "You know what I mean, Mrs. Masen." His voice catches a bit on the words, but he perseveres in a tone that is so earnest it cuts, "Why am I still alive, Isabella?"

Bella's eyes ache with phantom tears. She wants to sooth him like a child, but she wants to scream her refusal at him as well. She cannot lose him, doesn't he understand? She will gladly take what they have now, dwell in their love for the next fifty years and give it up afterwards, rather than risk everything for the hope of more. They have had this fight before, shortly after he proposed, and it seems they're to have it at least once more.

"Edward. You know how I feel about this—" his face is frozen in an expression of surprise, betrayal even. It makes Bella's gut ache and freezes the words she had intended to speak.

He jumps from the bed, marches across the room and begins to dress. This is probably best, for the view of his nude form once he sheds the bed linen is far too distracting to allow for any substantial conversation. Abruptly, he rounds towards her, and Bella can see that he's angrier than she has ever known him to be – formidable even – which is rather impressive, given the fact that his wife is immortal.

When he speaks, his voice is tight with emotion: "I thought…it was stupid, I guess," he grips his hair by the roots, tugging it in frustration, "I thought when you agreed to marry me that you were agreeing to _forever_, Bella. You know that's what I want. I can't be satisfied with only one lifetime with you. Not when I know we could have more. We could have so much more!" His green eyes blaze across the room, willing her to understand and, more than that, to capitulate.

If you haven't noticed, dear reader, our Bella is not very good at capitulating; unfortunately, Edward's tone has rather the opposite effect. She leaps up on the bed, letting the sheets pool around her ankles as she holds her arms out to the side, giving him a rather remarkable view. "Do I look like a praying mantis to you?" He's wise enough not to answer, and she vociferates, "You thought I'd just fuck you silly and then murder you in your sleep? Suck your blood but not quite enough to kill you, and all this without even a 'by your leave'? Are you jesting, Edward? I love you. I cannot lose you, you… IDIOT! How hard is that to understand? One whiff of your blood and it's all I can do not to drain you dry, but you expect me to be able to handle just one bite? It's too big of a risk! Why won't you believe me?"

And Bella can see it: the moment when Edward does, in fact, believe her. It's the moment he looks utterly defeated. It's the moment her hearts breaks just a little bit more. It's the moment she wants to retract every word. _Not yet_! she thinks, _Not us! The world will be waiting, eager to dismantle what we have built – don't let us be the ones to topple this ephemeral happiness._ But what can she say to make it better? How can she fight what is real?

They spend a week there in Canada on their honeymoon, and there are, thankfully, other moments of happiness and closeness, but there's a brittleness to their intimacy that hints of new fault lines and fragility too. On the train ride back to Wisconsin, Edward holds Bella's hand, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. She hates the hesitation she feels now, when before she would have interrupted his thoughts without a qualm, drawn him back into the circle of their love, smoothed the worry from his brow. Bella is now under the conviction that she is the source of that worry and wonders whether it will always linger.

"I'm going to have Carlisle change me." His voice is quiet, and Edward does not turn his gaze away from the window. It's a proclamation, not an invitation to dialogue.

Anxiety freezes Bella as it always does, and her stillness sits in counterpoint to the restless movement of Edward's fingers through his hair. Again she wonders, What can she say? He has obviously made up his mind. And, as plans go, it's not a terrible one: Bella has complete faith in Carlisle's self-control, and her objections have always rested in herself. It was never from a lack of desire that she resisted his request that she change him, make them equals.

"Alright."

He has obviously expected more of a fight because Bella's acquiescence spins him back towards her. His expression is amazement. "Alright? That's all? No stripping down and comparing yourself to insects this time?"

She inhales loudly, and it takes all the maturity of her one hundred and three years on this earth not to lose her temper. "First of all, the analogy was apt. Secondly, I've never objected to your being changed. If you'll recall, my argument was simply that it was unreasonable for you to have assumed that I would be changing you, and on our wedding night no less. Without having discussed it first." Her tone may have slipped over into condescension, particularly there at the end. Just recalling his disappointed assumptions has her full of exasperation once more.

"Good." His cheeks are pinking, but she cannot tell whether it is from rising ire or chagrin. Her bet is on the former.

"Good," Bella huffs, now equally incensed with herself. They are discussing Edward's death and, according to some, his certain damnation. Surely they ought not to agree to something so important in a fit of pique. _Maturity, Bella Cullen – Bella Masen!_ she remonstrates with herself. In a gentler tone, she continues, "Please know that I would sacrifice anything to share this life with you, excepting only yourself – I will not wager your life on my self-control. But your life is your own, and if you wish to bet on Carlisle, then I can only say that there is no better man to do the job, and the fact that he would be responsible for your immortal life will place me in his debt even more than I already am, which is no small reckoning."

Bella watches his eyes soften, and it's with a sigh of relief that she feels his arms encircle her waist. "I love you," he breathes, and kisses her forehead gently. "I won't be parted from you. Not if I can help it."

"And I love you," she whispers back. "We'll speak to him together when we return."

But Carlisle is not at home when they return. They wait, puttering about the house in domestic harmony: unpacking, laundering their clothing, Edward cooking a meal for himself while Bella makes faces at the smell filling the house. Eventually, Edward retires to bed, while Bella leaves to hunt, promising him that he'll wake to find her beside him. As she runs through the snowy woods, tracking a small herd of deer, she tries not to be alarmed at Carlisle's absence. After all, they have been home for less than a day, and he's often called away for long periods of time if a patient requires his attendance. And while he ought to have anticipated their return, Bella knows that the lives of his patients take precedent over courtesy, even to someone as scrupulously well-mannered as Carlisle. Still, it's that nagging doubt – the one that keeps expecting the worst – that has her on edge, pushing Bella to rush back to Edward, overwhelmed with a nauseous feeling of dread.

* * *

**A/N: Ack! I can't believe it - the story is finally written and will be updated weekly until complete. Many many thanks go to my prereaders, CindyWindy and miaokuancha, without whom this tale would be much less than what you find here.** **Thanks are also owed to any of you who are still reading this after such ridiculously long breaks between updates. As always, I'd love to hear what worked and what didn't. Many blessings, jj**


	35. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

**Edward**

**Ashland, WI – February, 1921**

Having Carlisle step in and change Edward is a simple solution to the conundrum of his humanity. But when has the courting of Isabella Cullen ever been simple?

Isabella returns from her hunt in a near panic. Nothing has happened, apparently, but she is certain that something terrible has kept Carlisle away. Logically, Edward knows that her response is irrational – he has worked with Carlisle long enough to know the man's entirely capable of spending terribly long hours at the bedside of a patient, but Edward's new wife has him spooked, and he feels his gut tying up in knots of anxiety. Isabella only stops long enough to spread her fear to Edward, and now she is aiming to run straight into town and hunt her brother down by scent. She is nearly invincible, and Edward knows this, but a lifetime of acculturation has him ready to spring between anything dangerous and the woman he loves, so it's all he can do to not order her to stay put and seek Carlisle out himself. Edward compromises by exchanging his sleepwear for his travel clothes, throwing on his coat and cranking the motor in Carlisle's staid but reliable Ford. Obviously, Isabella can run faster than this poor thing can go, but Edward won't be left behind to stew in his imaginings, praying that she's wrong when he's worried that she's right.

And, dammit, she is. It's Esme.

Edward tracks down Isabella, who has followed Carlisle to Ashland's small hospital. Esme has been in labor for nearly thirty hours and her strength, and that of the child, is flagging. With Isabella's experience as a field nurse and Edward's as a medical assistant, the newlyweds are both ready to leap in and lend aid where they can, but there is little they can do. Esme's heartbeat is irregular, and Carlisle worries for the safety of both mother and child. He doesn't have to tell them this in words – it's written across his features, in the way he reminds Edward of a tightly strung bow. Bella coaxes Carlisle to the hallway at one point, while Edward holds Esme's hand and monitors her pulse. He cannot hear their words, but Edward feels the calm in Bella's voice seep into his shoulders, unconsciously responding to the comfort she tries to infuse into her brother.

Esme's cheeks are pallid and her brow is damp from the exertion of the last contraction, which has left her limp. Edward takes a damp cloth from the nearby table and gently presses it to her neck, hoping to soothe her in some small way. Her eyes crack open and a weak smile plays at her lips.

"Shhh," Edward admonishes when he sees that she is gathering the strength to speak. "It's alright. Carlisle's just in the hallway, speaking with Isabella. You're going to be fine. You and the baby will be splendid, just as soon as we convince him or her to join us." Edward extemporizes as he goes – his experience with childbirth is nonexistent – but she squeezes his hand, and Edward takes that as a good sign.

Out in the hall, Bella's tone has changed – Edward cannot tell for certain, but she seems angry. Carlisle's voice is hushed, but there's a sharp defensiveness there.

With his finger on Esme's pulse, Edward can actually feel the contraction coming before her expression tightens and her breathing increases in tempo. Esme's eyes lock onto Edward's, and it is fear that he reads there: fear of pain and, ultimately, fear of death. _ I cannot endure much more, _she seems to scream silently, _but I cannot let this child die without drawing a single breath!_

Edward attempts to telegraph all the confidence and faith he can find within himself, even as he calls out in the least panicked voice he can muster, "Carlisle!" who is beside Edward in a breath, crooning over Esme's writhing form. Edward had sensed the way these two were drawn to one another, but never before has Carlisle's love been so transparent. Unfortunately, Esme does not witness it: her eyes are clamped shut, her body heaving with each difficult breath.

Isabella's voice is firm, and it startles Edward, "Carlisle! Enough!" Almost too fast to register it, Carlisle's face is terrifying in its fierce hostility, but the expression is instantaneously replaced by one of resignation. Both looks draw Edward up short, and he looks to Isabella in confusion.

"He needs to perform a Caesarian, but he's afraid. So many of the mothers develop an infection afterwards…" she is speaking to Edward, explaining their conflict, but her eyes are staring intensely into Carlisle's. Carlisle's reticence is obvious, but Edward cannot get a solid read on Isabella's emotions. Frustration? Fear? Worry?

Edward's focus snaps back to Esme as she screams, "Get! It! Out!" and this is the thing that propels everyone into action. Isabella is out the door, and Edward can hear her giving instructions to someone down the hall. Moving at an inhuman speed, Carlisle prepares Esme's bed to be moved into the surgery nearby; Edward simply tries to stay out of his way. With Carlisle's speed and dexterity, Edward recognizes that he would only be a hindrance, still, he scrubs up and grabs a gown from the closet, so that if, by some chance, Carlisle or Isabella do need him, he'll be ready.

Moving at human speed, Edward is a bit surprised to find that all the haste of a few minutes prior seems to have stalled. Isabella holds a gauzy mask to Esme's face; the blur in Edward's peripheral vision is Carlisle pacing, waiting for the anesthesia to take full effect. Finally, although it's only been five minutes since he entered the room, Isabella calls out a clipped, "Now." Lightning quick, Carlisle is hunched over the prone form of his love, scalpel in hand. Edward has a fleeting thought – that only love can ask so much of a man – before the scientist within him elbows out the romantic, and he's all eyes and ears, trying to absorb the details of a procedure done with the economy of the supernatural.

As Carlisle passes the child, a boy, to Isabella and efficiently completes the sutures, Edward has another surreal moment: he realizes that he's been standing, watching two vampires carve open an essentially helpless woman, and instead of feeling horror, he's been taking notes in his head. Shrugging off the oddness of his life's path, he turns to face his bride to ask her why, if Carlisle was capable of such an effective intervention, Esme was allowed to suffer so.

Patting the eerily silent child dry, Isabella obviously reads Edward's expressions more adeptly than he does hers, as she answers his unspoken question regarding the unnecessary delay, "Esme refused the Twilight Sleep* – she was convinced she'd never wake. It was such a long labor…" Edward wonders, in that moment, if Isabella is remembering the birth of her own child, so long ago. There was no anesthesia then to make the process less painful. She continues, "As I said earlier, Carlisle didn't want to perform the Caesarian Section if it could be avoided – there's still so much we don't understand about the mortality rates of women who give birth in hospitals. Still, he was going to lose her for certain if he didn't take immediate action, and at least this way, he has the time to tell her the truth about himself, see what she says."

"So she doesn't know – about the two of you?" Edward anticipates her head shake, but he has his doubts. Esme Turner seems to Edward a rather perspicacious woman; she may not know that she loves a vampire, but like Edward once did, she surely knows that the Cullens are _more_.

Edward turns his attention to the child in Isabella's arms. Rather thin and spindly, in Edward's admittedly amateur opinion, the child has yet to make a noise and his eyes are shut tight, but his fragile looking arms flail about. "Is he supposed to be that color?" Edward asks, genuinely curious. He hopes she won't think him rude, but the medical student in him is voracious, cataloguing a vast body of new knowledge.

Isabella smiles at this shift in the conversation, and it's her subdued smile more than her hesitant nod that puts his mind at ease. Edward reasons that she wouldn't be looking at him with an expression of fond indulgence if Esme's child were in immediate danger. She swaddles the newborn snugly in a nearby blanket as she answers his questions about the birth, the surgery, and the difficult recovery that Esme will necessarily undergo. Edward doesn't know if it's instinctive, or if Isabella has extensive experience with small infants – there's still so very many things about her unnaturally long life that he doesn't know – but it's mesmerizing: the image of her standing with a tiny baby in her arms.

"He's asleep," she whispers, and seems to be listening intently. She glances up and catches Edward staring. The soft expression she's wearing vanishes, replaced by a studied blankness that delivers a punch to her new husband's solar plexus. _Oh_. He supposes he should have known. Her body isn't technically alive. It's illogical to think that it could bring forth life. And he didn't – think it – really, but he didn't _not _think it, either. So it's more of a recognition than a realization, one that changes nothing, makes nothing void, cancels nothing out because she is everything.

Her stillness thaws as she watches in wonder: his love is that large, it will absorb this truth without flinching.

The moment between them is broken as Carlisle comes to take the baby from Isabella's arms. A silent conversation quickly passes between Isabella and her brother; both wear grim expressions that ratchet up the anxiety in Edward's gut. Isabella steps into the hall, but immediately returns, accompanied by two nurses who appear rather nonplussed at Carlisle's unorthodox methods. Still, they dutifully wheel Esme out of surgery and back to her room. Edward is not sure that his and Isabella's presence is needed any longer, but he is also unsure how to play this new role of husband. Does she want to stay, talk to Carlisle alone? Should he take charge, suggest they return home together? For the first time, it really hits Edward that these two siblings have spent nearly a century living as a pair, but now he must graft himself into their family. The thought leaves Edward equally apprehensive and excited.

When they catch up with Carlisle and Esme, the little one is safely ensconced in what Ashland calls a nursery. Both mother and child will be sleeping off the heavy anesthesia, apparently, but Edward doesn't have to ask Carlisle if he's staying. It's obvious he'll be here as long as Esme remains. It's what Edward would do if it were Isabella lying unconscious in that tiny bed.

"When is the last time you hunted?" Isabella asks. And just like that, the reality of this odd plane of existence Edward has wandered into reasserts itself.

"Just after the wedding," Carlisle answers as quietly as she inquired. "I will be fine for a while longer."

"No," she contradicts him in the same tone she uses on Edward – remarkably stubborn, yet perfectly well meaning. "Go now. She's sleeping, and she's going to be sleeping for some time. I'll stay with her. Go back to the house with Edward. Hunt. Bathe. Come back refreshed and ready to be the support she will need." Edward tries to follow the subtext in this conversation, but he can tell there's a message here he can't decipher.

Carlisle seems inexplicably defeated for a man who just saved his true love and her newly born child. Edward decides to passively go with Isabella's direction in this – Carlisle's far more likely to explain what is going on than this sphinx of a wife Edward's recently procured.

Sure enough, as Carlisle parks the car Edward borrowed/stole back at the house, the older man takes pity on Edward, despite the pain that it obviously costs him. And, even as Edward hears Carlisle's heart breaking in his voice, the young man thinks: _this is Carlisle's essence, this ability to set aside his own pain for the good and edification of others. _ Edward has admired him heretofore, but as of now, he loves him as a brother.

"Isabella fears for the child's health. Even making allowances for the anesthesia, his heart rate was too low and somewhat erratic, his lungs sound a bit weak. He may have simply suffered too much trauma. I don't know. Isabella fears that Esme too may have suffered some kind of trauma – not just tonight, but before – before she moved here. There's so much we don't know, and even more I fear. If the child were to die—" he cannot continue. It is one of those moments that defy words; Edward grips Carlisle's granite arm tightly, overcome by emotion.

A few tears slip down Edward's cheeks just as dawn breaks. From the moment it was clear that Esme's pregnancy was in danger, Edward has been haunted by the words Isabella wrote him so long ago now: "_The child which I bore as a reminder of my 'infamy' died. I grieved for him, but truly, I grieved largely for myself._"Esme's child seems doubly important to Edward now, as though his little life might redeem the one that was lost, along with the other sons Isabella will never bear. The two men sit together in silence for some time before Carlisle exits the automobile and leads them into the house.

Edward bids Carlisle good-night, in spite of the sun's recent appearance, and shuffles off to his bed. Exhausted with an abundance of emotion, he doesn't bother undressing – just slips off his shoes and pulls the blankets over himself.

Hours later, he wakes to an odd sound, opens his eyes in a room he's never before slept in, and finds himself rather disoriented. Still, the clicking buzz of some contraption continues, and it's only as Edward opens the bedroom door and orients himself as waking in Carlisle and Isabella's home –his home now-that he realizes that the sound he heard is that of the telephone that Carlisle had installed just a week before the wedding.

He lifts the earpiece from its cradle and speaks tentatively into the telephone's base. "Hello?" he asks, naively hoping that Isabella is merely ringing from the hospital to tell him that all is well.

The connection is poor, so it takes a couple shouted "Pardon me's" in order to hear the young woman on the other end, who is definitely not his wife.

"Sir, it's Dorothy, sir! Miss Margaret's lady's maid!"

"Yes? Is everything all right?"

"Oh, yes, quite alright!" Edward only now dares to breathe. "I was simply calling to inquire—" A great deal of static overtakes the connection. When it ceases, there's only silence.

"Hello? Dorothy? I couldn't hear that. What was it that you needed?"

The clarity of the call now seems to underscore her response: "Oh, sir, I was simply calling to inquire when we might expect Miss Margaret to return." The woman began to ramble on about shipping more linen or some such, but Edward's brain has derailed and it takes him a moment or two to catch up.

"Dorothy," Edward interrupts with a muted desperation, "am I to understand that my cousin never arrived home following my wedding?"

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**A/N: Hey, look at that - posting in a timely fashion! Extensive thanks go to my prereaders, CindyWindy and miaokuancha, who actually straight up beta-ed this chapter with their eye for grammar and their medical know-how. Any remaining errors are entirely mine. Speaking of errors - I love constructive criticism (It's the only way I know how to get better at this), so please let me know if you find things that might be improved, or let me know if there's something in here that actually works.  
**

*Twilight Sleep is actually the name for the concoction that doctors gave women in labor (I can't tell you how tempted I am to change it just to dial down the cheese factor here, but my commitment to historical accuracy forbids it!) – it not only put them under but induced temporary amnesia. It didn't go out of fashion until the early 50's. You can Google it. ;)


	36. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

**Bella**

**Ashland, WI – February, 1921**

It is difficult to calm Edward down when he arrives again at Ashland's hospital, but Bella is eventually able to extract from him the fact that Meg never reached Chicago. The news is devastating. Bella is sure that Edward's imagination has conjured a hundred tragic scenarios, so she keeps her fears to herself, which focus on two horrible possibilities – Meg's failing health or foul play. Is it terrible of Bella that she is praying Meg has collapsed en route and is lying somewhere in a hospital alone?

Edward is determined to drive back to Chicago and investigate, and this leaves Bella torn. She loves Meg, and the idea of Edward tearing off, possibly being confronted with his cousin's death, all alone – this is unacceptable. And yet – Esme's son is doing poorly; his breathing is distressingly irregular. Carlisle is walking the floors at a pace that is only marginally human. Can Bella really leave him here to deal with this alone?

"Isabella," Edward's whisper is gentle and pulls her back into the present. His warm palm cups her cheek and draws her into his embrace. He can be so perceptive at times, it's startling. "Stay. If the child dies…she will need you. They both will. I'll find Meg. It could be something ridiculous – she may have decided to go back to Lake Geneva rather than Chicago. She's probably holed up in a comfortable chair, reading all those novels you sent her." He doesn't believe this, but he's trying to make this decision easier for her, and Bella is nearly pulled under by the wave of love that crashes over her as a result of his enduring selflessness.

Bella clutches Edward tighter, mindful not to squeeze too tight, and then slowly releases him. "Hurry. The sooner you find her, the sooner you'll be back."

He flashes that ridiculous crooked grin that melts Bella's unbeating heart. "I'll ring you when I get there. Should I telephone the house?"

"No," she grimaces, and she can see that he too regrets their separation in these trying times. "No, ring the hospital. I don't think we will be home any time soon."

They kiss once and whisper words of love, and then he's gone.

Bella taps lightly on the hospital room door as she opens it, hoping not to disturb Esme if she's finally found some rest. The new mother's tired eyes reach for Bella's, however, so she enters silently and resumes her seat at Esme's side. The baby, Henry, is sleeping in his mother's arms, and two tiny fingers have sought escape from the swaddling blanket. Bella is not sure why, but this makes her smile.

"Something's wrong," Esme whispers, and Bella thinks at first that she means something new has happened with Henry, but then the inquisitiveness of Esme's face tells Bella that in spite of everything, this woman has room to offer compassion and concern for the cares of others. Bella wants to weep, but of course, that is impossible.

She nods instead. "Yes. Meg, Edward's cousin, is missing. She never returned to Chicago from attending our wedding. Edward is hoping that she's changed her mind, decided to return instead to Lake Geneva to convalesce, but…"again the possibilities of Meg being a victim to more than poor health settles in Bella's gut.

Horror washes over Esme's features. "But Carlisle drove her to the train station himself. Made sure she was taken care of. It's going to hurt him so much to think that something happened to her!" Her agitation is filling the room, making Henry squirm in response to her voice, so Bella sets aside her own fears and tries to calm Esme, downplaying her own anxiety. It does the trick, and Esme settles back down, patting Henry in a universal expression of comfort.

For a moment, this instinctively maternal act brings Bella back to her darkest period – memories she'd thought burned away in the fiery pain of venom. She sees the squalid little room she'd found, hears the endless cry of her own doomed child, feels the consuming sense of despair, praying he would just stop crying long enough to let her think clearly.

"Bella?" the timidity of Esme's voice breaks the eternally young woman from her unhappy thoughts. Esme blushes, and Bella realizes belatedly that Esme had adopted the familiar version of her name that Carlisle uses. Bella smiles to let her know she's welcome to it, and this seems to set her at ease. "Bella, is Henry going to live?"

"I don't know, Esme. I wish I could tell you for certain, but I can't. Carlisle has explained his concerns?"

Her act of nodding causes the tears that had been accumulating in the young mother's eyes to fall down her pale cheeks. Bella brushes them away as softly as she can, refusing to shy away when she sees the chill of her skin register in Esme's expression.

"I lost a child once, long ago." Bella waits to see if this confession will provoke the shock or outrage in Esme that would be typical in either woman's contemporaries, but her eyes just fill with more tears, and her hand clutches Bella's as though it might comfort or save them both. Bella takes a deep breath and forces herself onwards, "I'd let myself be compromised. A foolish thing to do. I was tossed out with nothing, no way to support myself. I did what I had to in order to survive. I was guilty, wretched, but that little babe was innocent. I still don't understand – can't comprehend how it was right for him to die…" Here Bella falters, fades into silence as she hears herself vocalize her deepest grievance for the first time ever.

As Bella looks up into Esme's face, even now expecting condemnation, all she sees is the devastation of understanding. This fact gives Bella the courage to speak the words that have never been spoken: "It was my fault. I should have been able to save him, but I couldn't. Didn't."

These two women cling to one another then, Bella crawling onto Esme's bed to hold her soul's sister close, Henry gently pressed between them as they commune in grief as only women can. Esme whispers in Bella's ear between sobs a broken account of her story, how she'd married because she felt she couldn't say no, how the kindness he'd presented had masked a simmering hostility and frustration, how drunken despair too often turned into slaps, punches, and threats of worse, how she had felt guilty for praying he'd perish in the war, and how he'd returned, but with a greater abyss of hurt and hatred, which he had taken out on her. When Esme had found herself pregnant, her worst fears realized, she'd been disillusioned when her parents had rejected her plea for help. Alone, Esme had fled, staying with relatives in Columbia, Ohio until her husband had come looking for her there, and then she'd realized that her old life was over. She'd cut all ties, reinvented herself as a war widow, and found work as a teacher in the backwoods of Wisconsin. And now…now Henry was so weak, so fragile, and she blamed herself, sure that she had failed him in some essential way. For what would she have, if she lost him?

Bella listens with dry eyes that belie the brokenness she feels in listening to this dear woman's tale. She cannot imagine the courage that Esme has summoned to make it this far. Bella rocks her and her child gently side to side, trying to communicate comfort to Esme just as she offered it to the babe. Bella cannot make promises, cannot offer her false hope, but she will stand with Esme, whatever comes, and that is the one thing no one did for Bella. Not until Carlisle.

Esme cries herself to sleep as they sit there in the quietness of heartbreak, embrace unbroken. Bella watches Henry's fragile breath pass in and out of his body, and she wants so many things that she cannot have.

"You can come in now," Bella says quietly, and watches as Carlisle opens the door silently. Bella's heart aches for him, knowing how it must have wounded him to overhear Esme's tale, loving her as he does. He stands just inside the room, gazing at these two amazing women whom he loves squeezed together on a tiny hospital bed and this little life sandwiched between them. He doesn't speak, just takes them in, a world of pain and adoration in his eyes.

The four of them remain in this peaceful tableau for some time, until Esme wakes, embarrassed to find Carlisle present, but also obviously comforted by his compassionate presence. Bella recognizes the look on Esme's face – the one that says she's screwing up her courage to say something important, and so Bella makes an excuse and gives them some privacy, even if she can hear the conversation as easily from the hallway as she can perched on the bed.

"Carlisle," is as far as Esme gets before she has to pause and regroup. Bella stands in the hallway, willing her friend extra helpings of strength and courage, confident that there is literally nothing that Esme can confess to this man that will diminish her in his eyes. "Carlisle," this time it's more determined, "I have not been completely forthcoming with you. But then, you've not been completely truthful with me." Bella sucks in a breath in surprise – this was not the direction she'd expected this conversation to go. Carlisle obviously begins to respond to Esme's gentle rebuke because the woman's tone becomes hurried, as though she's afraid to let him interrupt. "It's alright – you don't need to tell me now. I am simply acknowledging the situation for what it is. Carlisle, I believe you may have developed feelings for me, feelings that I ought not to have encouraged. I'm not a widow. I'm a woman who has run away from her lawful husband. A woman who has endangered her child and betrayed her wedding vows.

"I've taken advantage of your kindness, of the feelings of fondness that I flatter myself to believe you may possess. But, Carlisle, I have every intention of doing so one more time. Your eyes tell me that you love me, and it's because of that love that I'm asking you: save my child. You and Bella – I know that you're not… normal, you've got something magical about you, something supernatural. I'm not superstitious, but I feel this in my bones. You can do this, for me, please. You must save Henry."

Her words have leveled Bella, who can only imagine the devastation they've wrought on Carlisle. Bella slides down the wall, huddling near the door with her head resting on her knees. Not a very ladylike position, and she has already attracted some inquiring glances from the nurses bustling about, but she cannot move, does not even inhale as she waits to hear her brother's response. She just thinks, _Where is Edward? I need him so._

"Esme…" all Carlisle's despair and adoration are encompassed in that name. Bella can hear him cross the room, settle himself in the seat she recently occupied at Esme's bedside. Bella imagines him taking Esme's hand, caressing it with his cold fingers that must only serve to confirm her speculation. "Esme Platt Evanson," at this gentle naming, a sob breaks free from the young woman, "you may not be a widow, but you are absolved of any guilt you may feel in the deceit you perpetrated. You were ill-used, my love, and did only what you had to do. The same cannot be said for my own duplicity. I've recognized you to be entirely trustworthy from the moment I saw you here in Ashland, but I've failed to honor the woman that you are with the truth that I carry, simply because I selfishly feared you would reject me. I preferred being near you under false circumstances over the possibility that, knowing the truth, you would find me repulsive. And now. Now, in your direst need, I fall at your feet, begging forgiveness because I love you, utterly, and yet I cannot do this thing that you ask of me. It lies outside my power to grant your request. With all my medical knowledge, with every enhanced sense I possess, I will fight for Henry's life, my dearest Esme, but beyond that, I have nothing to offer, nothing to give."

Bella listens to her friend's elevated heartbeat, notes that her breathing is becoming more erratic, and Bella wonders if she ought not to go back in, do something - anything.

But Esme's voice stops Bella.

"Please. Go." Those two words are crippling in their rejection, in the hopelessness they express.

Carlisle complies silently, and the two vampire siblings end up keeping a wordless vigil on the floor beside the rigidly closed door to Esme's hospital room. Bella holds his hand, but other than that, they inhabit separate spheres of suffering, but both wondering what good it is to possess such powers only to find themselves helpless to save the ones they love most in this world.

* * *

**A/N: ****I suppose I envision this story as a bit of a bildungsroman - a coming of age story often associated with a physical journey paralleling the emotional maturation of the main character. This chapter is more about Bella's emotional journey - the "before" that she's only now facing and how that process is both necessary and excruciating for her. I hope you don't mind too much that it's light on action. Calm before the storm, really.**  


**Continued praise and thanks to my pre-readers, miaokuancha and CindyWindy. Thanks too to you for continuing to read this little tale of mine. I welcome your feedback - what you liked, what you didn't - both are always welcome. blessings, jj**


	37. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

**Bella**

**Ashland, WI – February, 1921**

Henry lives for two more days.

In that time, Carlisle does all he knows to do, prolonging Henry's shallow breaths, administering tiny chest compressions with two fingertips before Henry's heart can miss more than a single beat, but it is not enough. Esme's face takes on the expression of a specter, as though she is already passing out of this world. Bella knows too well how she feels, and can barely repress the swelling sense of rage inside of herself. What kind of world is this, what is the point of anything at all when such injustice prevails?

Bella is not present for Henry's last moments, though she is close enough to be so if she would. She hears the commotion from Carlisle's office, just as she is speaking on the telephone with Edward. She might ask him to wait, might rush in and bear witness to that little infant's death. She cannot. It is simply too much for her to watch this happen a second time, and she feels herself a coward for it.

Edward notices Bella's silence, and worried that the phone connection has been broken, he asks, "Isabella? Are you there? Can you hear me?"

It seems impossible to answer, but Bella does. "Yes," she croaks. "I'm here. I—" Esme's cries are audible to Bella's sensitive ears; they dry up her throat in sympathy, and she can speak no more.

"Isabella? What's happening?" Bella can hear his fear, straining over the distance. His exhaustion and frustration in finding no sign of his cousin is wearing on him, and Bella is capable of worrying on so many levels at once that it's no hardship to split her focus between Henry, Esme, Carlisle, Meg, and Edward.

"It's—it's Henry. He's gone," she manages to say it, though a good part of her doesn't really believe it possible. Where is Esme's miracle? Doesn't she deserve one, even if Bella did not?

Bella can hear Edward break down on the other end of the telephone line, and she wants him here so badly – to hold, and to hold her together.

"God. I'm so sorry," he whispers amid his tears. Bella hears his fist connect with something hard, and she winces at the very thought of him hurting himself, but she understands the need to siphon off some of the frustration.

In fact, she feels the need to spend some of that useless energy right now, and so Bella makes her excuses, expresses her infinite love for him, and signs off. As Bella nears Esme's room, contemplating stopping in to offer useless condolences, she hears Carlisle's whispered words of comfort and so passes by. Bella walks through town, out into the woods she knows so well, and picks up speed until it feels as though she is flying. Dusk is settling over the world, and it seems wrong somehow that the universe can contain such beauty and such heartbreak all at once.

Bella runs for hours in a northerly direction, feasting on a small herd of elk she comes across, not precisely thirsty, but just wanting to kill, to displace a bit of this emptiness that feels like it will consume her. In the same frame of mind, she pulls up an old pine tree, kicking it into small chips of wood, but even as she does it, she recognizes it as an exercise in futility. Giving up, Bella jogs slowly back towards Ashland.

She is about ten miles from the house when the breeze washes her in that most seductive of scents: human blood. Perhaps on a better day, Bella might have ceased breathing and investigated so as to offer help. Tonight she must face with dread that it is not with the purest of motives that her footfalls speed up. And thus, she is fully unprepared for what she finds as she rounds the little bend at the foot of the nearby cliffs.

Esme.

Broken in form as she has been broken in spirit. Esme lies in a pool of her own blood, and Bella doesn't need to stop breathing because she has never found blood so repugnant in all of her long life. Bella runs to her friend and wants to weep with relief when she perceives Esme's heart still beating feebly. The poor woman appears to be unconscious, which is a blessing; Bella unconsciously tugs on the short curls peeking from below her hat, pushes away memories of smoke and flame. Bella scoops her up into her arms and runs as fast as she can, praying to a God that moments ago she wanted to strike at that Carlisle will be home when they reach it. _Give them the chance to say goodbye_, Bella keeps repeating to herself as she hurries over the winter terrain.

For some reason, this is the prayer God chooses to answer.

Bella starts shouting for Carlisle the moment the house, lit from within like a beacon of hope, comes into sight. He's running towards her now, and Bella wants to close her eyes so that she won't have to remember forever the emotions playing out on his face as he takes in the situation before him. Carlisle quickly takes his love from Bella's arms, and they place Esme on the sofa in the front parlor, quickly assessing the damage that she's wrought upon herself.

"I'm so sorry. She jumped from that cliff—"

He doesn't even respond; he doesn't say anything. Just leans down and sinks his teeth into her carotid artery, gently closing the wound with his venom. Bella stands speechless as he repeats the action at each of Esme's wrists. He folds his hands over hers and rests his brow upon their linked fingers as though in prayer.

And that is when Bella loses the last of her composure.

She grabs Carlisle by the scruff of the neck and throws him across the parlor, where he crashes into the mirror hanging above the fireplace mantle. Stunned, he doesn't even rise as a vampire might, just sits there staring at Bella as though she had lost her mind. And perhaps she has, because lightning fast, she is across the room, pressing her advantage and seeing red. Bella grabs him by his well-tailored arm and flings Carlisle out the large plate-glass window overlooking the front walk.

Leaping after him, Bella stands above Carlisle's prone figure, her vision quivering with rage. "How. Dare. You." The words are practically spit at him, and Bella can see each pierce him but can't be bothered with compassion just now. "You self-righteous bastard! She chose death! There's no ambiguity here. There's no accident. You son-of-a-bitch! How dare you keep her for yourself!"

Carlisle is crouched before Bella, head tucked to his knees, vulnerable and writhing in guilt, but his posture seems to just incite his sister more.

"You can't just go around saving people against their wills! Don't you see that? You're. Not. God! Stop trying to save us from ourselves. Some of us don't want to be saved!"

It's the shift in pronouns that rouses him. They are not just talking about Esme anymore.

"Bella—" his voice is broken. Everyone seems to be broken these days. "I wish I could tell you that I'm sorry, but I am not. Not for what I just did. And not for saving you."

Bella strikes out at him with her fist, and he moves defensively to protect himself, but he doesn't strike back. If he had a supernatural gift, Bella's shield would put him on his ass, but in hand to hand combat, he's still far better than she.

"Can you possibly still wish to be dead, now that you have Edward?" he asks as he sidesteps Bella's right kick towards his knee. His words only spur her on, make her fight with desperation. "Can you resent my intervention when you've accomplished so much good? Was I really wrong to save you? Are you still unable to see yourself as worthy of saving?"

With those words piercing her heart, Bella manages a quick feint to the left and follows it up with a mighty punch to his solar plexus, landing Carlisle twenty yards away against the carriage house. Bella stands panting, hands resting on her thighs, as though winded. It's the emotional confrontation, not the physical one that levels her. She doesn't watch Carlisle rise, but she can hear him walk slowly back towards her. He takes her by the shoulders, helping Bella stand. Her eyes closed, she can't face him anymore, but he folds her into his embrace, and eventually Bella's hands snake out and close around him as well. They stand there together, in the weak moonlight of a Wisconsin winter, weeping dry tears.

"I didn't deserve to be saved," Bella whispers into his shoulder. "I let my baby die-"

"Stop." She can't see his face, but Bella hears the sternness in his voice and knows better than to disobey his injunction. "You could not have saved that child, any more than Esme could save Henry. Would you blame her for what has happened?" Bella hopes it's a rhetorical question, but he seems to be waiting for an answer, so eventually she shakes her head no. "Did you murder your child?" Bella gasps at the audacity of his inquiry, but again he seems to be waiting for a real answer. She shakes her head no once more. "Did you do everything you could to save him and yourself from the wretched circumstances in which you found yourself?" He's leading Bella to an untenable conclusion, but she gives him the answer he's waiting for, nodding yes. "Did you want to die in that fire, Bella?" Another sob breaks from her, and Bella can only manage the smallest of nods, but she admits it finally. Yes. She had wanted to die, to close her eyes and never wake.

Carlisle peels Bella from him just enough to look into her eyes, the ones he remembers as brown and transformed into gold. He gently brushes his hand down his sister's cheek and asks, "Will you forgive me for saving you?"

"Yes," Bella whispers.

"Will you forgive yourself for being saved?"

Bella drops her head to Carlisle's shoulder and his arms hold Bella upright, but still she answers, "Yes." Yes. She can accept what cannot be changed. She can accept that Carlisle worked a change in her that he had no right to do, and Bella can even accept that an infinite amount of good has come from that change. Edward. Carlisle. Meg. Esme. Even Demitri. Bella is glad to be alive, and that is a feeling she has never given herself permission to feel.

The catharsis Bella might experience at this long awaited moment is interrupted by the piercing cry of pain Esme emits from the house.

Bella pushes Carlisle away from her with a warning, "If she wants your head for this when she wakes, I won't stop her."

His expression is both rueful and sufficiently apprehensive as they both look through the broken window at the woman just beginning her excruciating transformation into a vampire. "Nor will I," Carlisle sighs and turns to Bella with genuine curiosity. "Could you have let Edward die?"

Just hearing those words fills Bella with terror. Her imagination balks at the ideas Carlisle has suggested with his hypothetical scenario. "I don't know," she confesses. "I know for certain he wants to become like us, but if that weren't so…if he'd knowingly chosen to die. I hope I'd be brave enough to let him choose." A part of Bella wants to apologize – her words contain a judgment on Carlisle's recent actions, but she leaves them there, where they belong. _Mate_. _Beloved_. Regardless of what Esme is to him, Carlisle was wrong to thwart her wishes. Bella just hopes Esme can forgive him, and looking at him peering through the wreckage of their home at her prone and suffering on the sofa, Bella knows that is what Carlisle is hoping too.

* * *

**A/N: My prereader CindyWindy pointed out to me that the topography of Ashland is rather flat, wouldn't it be better for her to jump off the railway ore dock? This raises an essential point for me: to what degree, in writing a parallel-AU, do I take liberties with the original material? **

**You see, this story, in some part, was inspired by minisinoo's "Finding Himself" in that I adore the way she changed one single thing (Cedric lives) and explores how that one plot change ripples outward into canon, affecting both theme, events, and characterization. I wanted to do something similar (though perhaps not as effectively); by altering the timeline of Bella's past and circumstances, I wanted to examine the resulting changes in the power relationship between the two lovers, how some of Edward's hangups would look if filtered through Bella's personality, etc (see profile for the questions that generated this tale). So all changes to canon ought to be intentional - ie, altered as a direct result of the changes I've made in Bella's backstory, not simply changes because I dislike certain details of the world that SM crafted (for example - these vamps sparkle, and I WOULD change that if I weren't trying to write parallel to canon). **

**TL;DR - all that is to say that in her Official Companion to the Twilight Saga, SM writes, "Feeling as if she had lost everything, Esme walked to a cliff outside of town and jumped" (107). So, SM needs a pre-reader like mine, because both CindyWindy and miaokuancha made this chapter infinitely better, and while I will claim nearly all the errors that may still exist in this chapter, that little topographical detail belongs to SM.**

**Thoughts? I love to hear them.  
**


	38. Chapter 34 (revised)

Author's Note: Please accept my apologies for the lengthy gap since this last updated. It's taken a great deal of writing, revising, and editing [repeat] (both on my part and my amazingly generous beta, miaokuancha, and prereader, CindyWindy) to get this story to a place where I can feel satisfied in presenting it to you. The good news is, it's DONE. I will publish a remaining chapter each day this week, so no more waiting (assuming that there is anyone left out there to read this thing), beginning with this one, a revised version of Chap 34, tweaked in order to improve flow, fill plot holes, and increase tension.

Because it's been so stinking long since I updated, let me give you a quick refresher on where we left off:

Edward, still human, has gone back to Chicago in search of his dear cousin, Meg, who never arrived home after attending Edward and Bella's wedding. Vampire siblings, Bella and Carlisle, stand vigil at Esme's bedside as she transitions, following Carlisle's thwarting of his mate's suicide attempt. You may recall that in this AU, the nature of supernatural gifts has been altered slightly by the human experiences characters had before being changed - in particular, Bella's suffering and life on the Victorian streets have strengthened her shield properties: when at rest, she is essentially as in canon, but when in blood-lust mode (indicated by a reddening of her vision), her shield becomes more like a mirror, turning the supernatural attack back on the attacker.

* * *

**Chapter 34**

**Bella**

**Ashland, WI – February, 1921**

_Isabella, No sign of M. Will call soon. Can't return without word of her. Yours, E_

Bella crumples the two-day-old Western Union telegram in her hand, utterly frustrated. Meg's disappearance seems to Bella an opening gambit on the part of the Volturi, and that idea has her climbing the walls with anxiety over the physical distance between Edward and herself. And yet – without proof of vampire interference, she cannot quite make up her mind to leave Carlisle alone. Hadn't Bella just been vowing to herself that she would stand beside Esme, whatever came? Why couldn't Edward simply trust her judgment and return as she'd requested? With each question or doubt, Bella paces the floor.

"Bella, go to him," Carlisle declares in exasperation. Bella suspects that she is annoying him with her inability to sit still. Vampires do not usually pace. "Esme will be fine. The neighbors will be fine. I kept you from unnecessary slaughter, remember? Surely I can do that for my own mate. _Go to yours_." He is sitting beside Esme, holding her hand and waiting for her to die. The moment is truly macabre.

He is right, though – Bella isn't sure why she feels the need to hover, except that maybe Esme really will be angry at Carlisle for changing her, and Bella wants to be there, to support her, to comfort her if Carlisle's presence is more of an irritant than a balm.

But what is that fear when measured against Edward's – or even Meg's – safety?

"You're right. Of course. I'm going - now," Bella tells him, and, still impulsive after all these years, she runs. She's waited too long now, and can't even take a train or the Ford to maintain an illusion of humanity, she just needs to be with him. Luckily, it is coming on to eleven at night, so there's no one to catch a glimpse of Bella running across the plains states that separate the newlyweds, long skirt tucked into her belt, leather boots becoming a fright. A hint of dawn is perceptible to the east as she nears Chicago's suburbs and has to make herself presentable, slow her gait. Every step at human speed is torture, but there's a tiny sweetness to be felt in crossing paths that she once trod with Edward. The trolley rocking by even elicits a secret smile.

It's a shocking hour to knock on a respectable door, but as Edward's young wife, Bella expects the servants will forgive her. That is why she grows increasingly apprehensive when no one responds to the summons of the doorbell.

With a quick glance about the street to make sure she's not being watched, Bella descends the steps to the kitchen entrance and forces open the door. She listens closely but is met with only silence. Dread feels like a brick lodged in her gullet as she quietly creeps up the servants' stairs.

On the first floor, Bella again encounters nothing but silence. She wants to avoid startling an unsuspecting maid while skulking about her husband's childhood home, but she's also too apprehensive to go calling out, announcing her presence. Senses on alert, she doesn't smell or hear anything untoward-

Except…she cannot hear even a single heartbeat in the house. Quick as thought, she's running through the floors of the house, using every heightened sense she possesses to seek him out, only to be utterly confounded. No one is home. Not Edward, who seems to have been here as recently as a day or two ago, not even old Mrs. Tysdale, the family's housekeeper, whom Bella had understood to be a rather permanent fixture of the place.

Coming down the main staircase, Bella notes that at least one day's post lies uncollected beneath the mail-slot in the front door. Even from the landing, Bella's vampire-sharp vision can see that atop the various letters rests a parcel addressed to _Mrs. Edward Anthony Masen_.

Bella approaches the package as though it might bite. _Who would write to her here? Who would write to her at all? _She breathes in deeply as she lifts it from the floor, and before she has even opened it, Bella sees red. Within the plain brown paper, folded neatly, she finds an elegantly monogrammed handkerchief. _RLD _is embroidered in the intricate design Bella had witnessed Evangeline laboring over. _Richard Lawrence Dorset. _Ominous as any observer may find this token from the dead, to Bella it holds a deeper horror, for woven into its delicate fibers is the intoxicating scent of a vampire she knows too well.

"_Jane_." Her name escapes Bella's mouth in a hiss.

Like a bloodhound, Bella investigates every square inch of that house, but at the end of her search, she is no closer to an explanation. The little bitch hasn't been in the house, nor any other vampire – Bella would have caught their scent from the start – but she has most certainly insinuated herself into the affairs of those closest to Bella–the handkerchief was clearly intended as a taunt, sent to Edward's home and addressed to Edward's wife. Scenarios and questions crowd Bella's mind, but worse still is the growing panic whispering in her head that she may be too late. Resolutely, Bella pushes away that train of thought and tries to unravel the knot logically. _Edward is not here. No one is here. If Jane doesn't have him yet, then Bella has to find him. Where would he have gone?_

Bella exits the Masen house as she entered it and quickly makes her way through the slowly waking streets of Chicago to the impressive property Meg inherited upon the unfortunate death of her family. There is a slim possibility that Edward might be there, even at this unnatural hour of the morning, consulting with Meg's staff and pursuing his nonexistent leads as to her whereabouts. These are, at least, the thoughts upon which Bella concentrates so as to most effectively ignore that chorus of _too late _trying to drive her mad.

She prepares in her mind a lie to avoid raising undue alarm, but forgets such thoughts when she turns the corner, catching the scent of Edward's aromatic blood. Worse still, as she rushes through the front door, left slightly ajar, Bella registers the ominous fact that the foyer reeks of at least three unknown vampires. Worst of all is the scent she dreaded most to encounter here: Jane.

_Too Late. Too Late._

Caught between the vital need for caution and the reckless impulse to charge blindly ahead, Bella swallows down her fear and pauses to listen for any evidence that the intruders remain within. There's no sound, no hint of an enemy hidden in the house – just the tantalizing scent of Edward's blood tainting the air, pulling her up the stairs. Every step forward draws her to the next, filling her heart with fear and her mouth with venom.

Bella's mind races, brimming with nightmare scenarios, even as she prays that she is wrong, that somehow, in spite of what she knows to be true, two plus two can add up to five: Jane's scent and Edward's blood will somehow add up to his safety. _Please, just let him live._

Bella opens the door to Meg's room, crushed beneath the scent that once threatened her with damnation, but has since been transfigured into the promise of redemption. Every window wide open, the early morning breeze wafts through the room, enveloping Bella in the horror of what she sees. The white satin bedspread, the thick Persian rug, the gossamer pink curtains. All of it is splashed with a dark red that practically pulses in Bella's vision.

All she can think: _TOO LATE. _

* * *

_Thanks again to any and all who are willing to finish this ride. The changes to this chapter may seem small to many, but I've been blessed with a beta/editor/friend in miaokuancha who elevates my writing with her amazing attention to detail, and every improvement she's suggested makes a world of difference to me. New chapter will be up tomorrow!  
_


	39. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

**Bella**

**February, 1921 – Chicago, IL**

"I've been redecorating."

Slick as sin, Jane is suddenly crouched on the windowsill, absorbing with delight the effects of her handiwork. Her laughter would be the sweet tinkling of a child's if it weren't so sadistic.

Yet, even thus provoked, Bella feels cocooned within a surreal sense of calm as though she and reality have taken leave of one another. She simply stands mute, separate from the horror she beholds. Ever so slowly, Bella turns her head, absorbs the fact of Jane's demonic presence. Two plus two slowly resolves itself into the inevitable answer of four.

Jane's crimson eyes are stretched wide in delight, as though she's straining to take in every inch of Bella's reaction, which may disappoint, as the girl seems determined to provoke a more maudlin response. Jane pads across the room, sits on the blood smeared coverlet and pats the spot beside her, as though inviting Bella to sit and chat like old friends.

Bella's eyes merely narrow at the imp'sher enemy's audacity, though her grip tightens reflexively, and both women look down to find that Bella still holds the ill-fated Dorset's handkerchief in her fist.

The sight makes Jane smile widely, "I see you received my gift." Her head tilts slightly to the left, as though perplexed; her tone takes on an exaggerated note of sympathy, "Humans you are fond of _do_ have a terrible habit of turning up dead."

Rather than succumb to her terror, Bella experiences a strange kind of peace as she slowly smiles at Jane. _I'm going to enjoy killing you_, Bella thinks.

Perhaps Jane is thinking the same thought.

Regardless, Jane reads Bella's intent and makes a condescending "tsk tsk" noise, shaking her finger at Bella as though she's just a disobedient child. "Now, now, Isabella. Don't act rashly. Poor, poor Edward's not dead…yet. I have already drained the life out of your annoying little _friend_," Jane injects the word with all the disdain she appears capable of conjuring as she gestures to the tarnished innocence of Meg's girlish bedroom, "and a whole host of others I can't be bothered to keep track of, so don't provoke me into doing the same to your _husband_."

He's alive. Edward's alive. For now. That's enough to pull Bella up short, to tie her back to this life, make her vulnerable again. Enough to make her do anything, really.

"What do you want?" Bella manages to push out through gritted teeth.

"_I_ want you dead. Unfortunately, my desires are not of ultimate importance here. I live to serve my master, provide Aro with whatever _he_ wants, and that, for now, is you."

Bella absolutely refuses to react. She will not show the revulsion she feels at the demon's words or the abject terror that possesses her with the realization that, because the bitch has Edward, Bella will do as Jane says, trade away her freedom and conscience if that is what it takes to save him.

"Fine," Bella snaps, but Jane laughs in response.

"Oh, Isabella! You didn't think I would make it that easy on you?" This is clearly a rhetorical question, so Bella stares at her in silence. "I think I'll let you stew for a bit longer. Let you think about how your dear little Edward might be suffering, since he has no convenient gift to protect him from my delightful talents. Let you wait here and wonder how this room got so untidy while you waited for word of him." Bella's vision is swimming in red, and all she can think is how she wishes Jane were foolish enough to test Bella's shield right now. Instead, Jane slips back to the open window from whence she came and pauses, speaking over her shoulder at Bella with a self-satisfied air. "_Do_ worry, dear Isabella. After all, I may be under orders to bring you back to Aro alive, but no such protection is extended to your so-called family, and I'd just as soon ship you back to Volterra in pieces, so I advise you to watch your step."

And then she's gone.

Bella runs to the window sill; Jane waves at her from below, blowing her a sardonic kiss. "Thanks for the chat! We'll be in touch!" Jane calls before waving a jaunty goodbye and slipping into the deepest shadows along the garden wall. Whirling back to stare again at the bloody evidence of all she's brought down upon these dearest of people, Bella thinks quickly, commits to a course, and acts.

She will save him. She will try.

It's a risk. She realizes that. And part of her is disinclined to chance it, cautions her to run as quickly back to Wisconsin as she can, praying that Carlisle can somehow solve this conundrum and put it all to right, but the larger part of her recognizes that there's only one direction she can possibly run in, and that is _towards _Edward. Lightning fast, she races into the bedroom beside Meg's, ransacks Evangeline's closet, swathes herself in a heavy fur coat, luxurious scarf, kid gloves, and a large brimmed hat with a gauzy veil. Accoutered in a way to avoid drawing undue attention in the pale light of winter, Bella forgoes the garden gate, resisting the temptation to follow Jane's scent so directly, and instead circles around to the opposite side of the property and out into an adjoining street.

Approaching in this oblique manner, it takes Bella a few heart-wrenching moments to catch sight of Jane, but she does, just as the demon-child raises the cowl of her dark charcoal cloak and pauses to watch the very corner Bella would have crossed had she been impetuous enough to follow Jane's trail. Bella's wardrobe change is intended to serve a second purpose: shielding her from the interest of her quarry, and Bella can only assume it succeeds as Jane's countenance is sufficiently smug as the girl turns away and continues walking. From that point forward, Bella is careful not to move too close, nor to do anything that might attract the fiend's attention. However, her task becomes infinitely more difficult just two blocks further into Chicago's increasingly busy streets when another figure, this one garbed in the light grey mantle of a new Volturi guard, steps from the shadows and joins Jane. Unspeaking, the two walk briskly through town, rudely jostling pedestrians and cowing any objections with an intimidating glare. Bella's cautious hunt becomes marked by confusion and then fear when she eventually crosses the street in pursuit, only to find their trails wiped clean.

She had watched them walk past this shop just minutes ago. Where then is Jane's scent? Frantically, Bella inhales, relieved to find she's not been somehow rendered crippled – it's only the vampires' scents that are missing, while the other myriad smells of Chicago abound. Bella refuses to let this setback rattle her. It may have become much more dangerous and difficult to track them, but Bella won't let Jane win this game she has been blackmailed into playing, and so sets out to carefully keep them in sight.

Half an hour later, standing in the deep shade of a grocer's stall, Bella's confusion recedes a fraction as she catches clearer sight of Jane's companion for a moment as the two stand, a few blocks away, waiting for a streetcar to pass. His face is familiar, though Bella does not recall ever hearing his name. He was one of the gifted vampires Jane culled from Xi Feng's retinue in China before executing the rest. Bella does remember how perplexed Carmen and the others were about Tanya and Eleazar's scent disappearing so abruptly in the wilderness of Siberia. It's obvious that this man's gift, which saved him from Volturi wrath and cost Tanya her life, is one of masking, absorbing, or somehow erasing a vampire's scent. She backtracks a block, carefully keeping them in her sight, but confirms that her own scent trail is missing as well – so his gift must revolve around proximity when activated, not simply encompassing chosen allies, and there must be some sort of activation, otherwise she would have experienced his talent more directly in China. It's extremely disconcerting – this selective anosmia – a bit like finding oneself invisible, but to the nose. Bella grimaces as she thinks about how this tool might be used, how it alters the game for a species that relies so heavily on their sense of smell when hunting. Still, if she's careful, Bella can use this development to her advantage, take them unawares.

Soon, the two darkly clad figures leave behind the prosperous and teeming streets, transiting into the seedier side of Chicago. Bella hangs back further, aware that the richness of Evangeline's wardrobe will be far too conspicuous amongst the increasingly desperate poverty in this neighborhood; however, the cool morning light intermittently breaks through the cloud cover, and so Bella fears entirely discarding her coverings. In the end, she can't risk losing her quarry completely, and so she drops the coat in a muddy alleyway, then puts it back on, gives a similar treatment to the dark blue scarf, which she now drapes over her head, and abandons the posh hat completely. Altered sufficiently to appear as one making do with a rich woman's castoffs, Bella peeks around the corner but cannot see Jane or her companion. Fearful of coming upon them unexpectedly without her sense of smell to warn her, Bella takes a circuitous route towards the spot in which she last caught a glimpse of them. She pauses in the shadow of a filthy tenement, but there's no sign of them and, more frustrating, there's still no scent.

Well, no scent of vampires. There is, however, the overwhelming scent of blood.

It's not all human, this carnal breeze wafting towards her from the direction of the docks and factories. Porcine and bovine, the blood that coats the floors of the meat-packing factories of Chicago is a constant for a vampire residing in this industrial city, but rarely does Bella venture so close to its source. Still even this close, it cannot mask the scent of spilled human blood, not the one blood that belongs to her alone.

_Edward._

She wants to run. To burst in to every building until she finds him. To bind his wounds. To carry him to safety. To beg his forgiveness that she didn't change him when she had the chance.

Instead, she hides. She allows the siren song of Edward's blood to lead her forward, but she must fight to do so stealthily, keeping to the dirtiest and least inhabited alleyways. When Bella is certain of her destination, she scales the side of an adjacent building, and finds a perch from which she can peer through a broken window into the filthy factory below. The boisterous sounds of shouting and machinery, accompanied by the bellowing of cows and the terrorized squealing of pigs all float up to her as she lies pressed to the cool grey bricks of the rooftop. Nearly thirty yards of filth and mud, along with a rusting fence separate the working factory atop which she hides from the decrepit site her enemy has chosen for their roost. From her place on high, she can catch glimpses of the detritus not worth hauling off when the factory shut down. Little light illuminates the cavernous space, but enough for Bella's enhanced vision to be certain that _someone _is inside. Bella listens for Edward's voice, for his heartbeat, for any indication that Jane was telling the truth, that the demon has him tucked away somewhere in the bones of this frightful relic.

Ultimately, it's not her husband's voice that reassures Bella, it's Jane's. Speaking quietly with her brother Alec, Jane's voice is nearly lost among the cacophony of the animals' death bellows. Certain that Jane believes her conversation to be a private one, Bella listens attentively for any intelligence she can glean.

"Finally," Jane hisses to her twin, as they exit the factory building below Bella, forcing her to lie flat on the roof for concealment, "What took so long?"

"Long?" Alec asks, clearly irritated by his sister's tone, "Perhaps you merely lack patience." Bella can't see them from where she's lying, but gains perverse satisfaction at the thought that even Jane's brother can barely stand being in her company. Her satisfaction evaporates when their conversation resumes, however, "But then, you always did. I presume you've run your errand – I see the bodies are mounting inside."

Edward could be among those discarded remains.

Jane's responding giggle magnifies Bella's terror. "Indeed. It went better than I could have hoped. The servants were easily dispatched, of course, and Felix and Mo Ying loaded them in the conveyance quite efficiently. I wish you could have been there, Brother, to see that bitch's terror when she caught sight of all that blood. Priceless." Bella has to grit her teeth and stop breathing to suppress a scream as Jane's sigh of contentment floats up to her.

The silence below pulls Bella like a vortex, but she resolutely remains pressed to the rooftop above, wondering if she is imagining the tension she senses between them. If Jane was hoping for Alec's enthusiasm to match her own, she is disappointed, for instead, he admonishes her, "You're getting careless. First with the girl," a hissing accompanies this statement, "and now with Isabella. You can't fight her as you do others – it was reckless to stay behind and face her alone." Jane begins to interrupt, her tone impatient and annoyed, but his voice overrides hers, "Tell me now – no dissembling – why must you do this? What is it that compels you to this game of malice? Is it simply because she's immune to you? We both owe her our lives – do you resent that debt so much?"

Silence answers, and again Bella longs to look, yearns to observe her nemesis more closely.

"All those things, yes, but it's more," Jane finally confesses. "I cannot burn again, Alec, cannot endure it another moment. You don't understand – you blocked it out – but I felt every excruciating flame, felt it begin at our feet, remember the smell of the clothes you were wearing as they caught fire, remember the tips of my fingers itching as the pyre we were tied to grew hotter. It's the memory of those flames that I inflict on others, just as it's the blankness you impose. And what does 'Miss Isabella Cullen' do? She gives it back. She makes me relive it. She is anathema to me, and so, I will become anathema to her. I shall exorcise the memories she has thrown back at me by giving her pain of her own, measure for measure. Aro can't take that from me … and he won't. No," and now the girl's voice deepens with smug cruelty, "he'll thank me, for breaking her spirit."

There's a rustling of fabric below, and in Bella's imagination, these two crooked-hearted children are embracing.

"I suppose this is why the boy still lives?" Alec asks.

"Yes! Let her inhale the smoke before _I_ set _her _world on fire!" Even with a heart of stone, Bella shivers. "It's going to blaze to the heavens, I promise you that. I'm not a fool, Alec, I know that time is short-"

"I know you're no fool, but you're right – Aro is not known for his patience. I do not wish to argue with you any longer – I see you will not listen, but you know what I think, Sister: it's dangerous to antagonize one whom Aro values so highly."

"And you know what I think," she spits back, "that he simply wants what he can't have. He'll tire of her and her damned mirror talent soon enough, and in the meantime, if I incinerate her prosaic little life, she will have nothing to pine for as she serves our Master." Jane's voice turns vulnerable as she asks, "You'll help me, won't you?"

Alec is quick to respond, tone heavy with a long-suffering fondness, "Whose business have I been about? Hmm?"

Pleased, and presumably reminded of that very business, Jane's inquiry is tense with anticipation, "And did you have any trouble with Demetri? Aro warned me that his allegiance is tenuous at best, in spite of Chelsea's talents."

On one level, Bella's mind catalogues all that the twins below say as Alec tells Jane of Chelsea's frequent reinforcing of Demetri's bond to the Volturi, of his annoyance with Chelsea's mate, Afton, even going into various details regarding Alec's last meal. But on a more immediate level, Bella's mind is busy absorbing this newest revelation, inordinately betrayed at the thought of Dima participating in this game of vengeance and torture. Equally distressing, Bella desperately searches her memory for proof that this strange talent she possesses keeps her immune to Demetri's gift. She knows she never had cause to reflect his tracking senses back on him, but that only happens when she's experiencing bloodlust. More vital to her imminent survival is the question of her latent shield – is she invisible to his extrasensory gift? His first arrival at her home – mightn't he have tracked Carlisle, knowing she would be nearby? And when he saved her from the savages on their trek through Siberia – hadn't she left a clear trail of scent to follow? But, of course, both of those things might be true, and he might, at this very moment, be down below, aware of her presence and alerting her enemies. And yet, perhaps hope remains – perhaps it is his friendship with Bella that made Aro suspicious? So, even if he knows she's here, he might be willing to help her.

"I don't think Demetri liked the errand much," Bella hears Alec say as the sound of a door opening filters up to her, "but we did as you asked. It's just as well you sent me – there was a woman completing her transition, actually, and I doubt very much your minions could have handled them both—" The door closes, muffling the rest of their whispered conversation, and if she had a heartbeat, Bella is certain it would have been cut off as well.

_Carlisle? And Esme too? Is she to lose every person she loves to this hideous creature?_ _Enough. _Bella stands and prepares to face her greatest fears. But even as she does so, cold hard fingers encircle her neck, and she's pulled roughly skyward, dangling over the edge of the roof while a sinister chuckle sounds in her ears.


	40. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

**Bella**

**February, 1921 – Chicago, IL**

To the chorus of dying pigs and lowing cattle in the industrious factories clustered nearby, Bella desperately scans her options, tries to find a way to salvage this rescue attempt that seems over before it has truly begun.

The deep laughter sounds again as her attacker pulls her back from an innocuous six story drop only to slam her roughly against the stones at his feet, his grip still firmly around her throat.

"Isabella," Felix whispers hungrily, venom dripping slowly from his lips to the shell of her ear not pressed against the rooftop. Bella's flesh crawls, and as his free hand takes liberties with her person, she clings to rational thought, beats down memories of _before _that try to rob her of will. _Think, goddammit. Edward needs you._ _It's Felix. He has only his strength, no talent to use against him. There has to be an angle, a way…dealing with Jane would be better than this—_

Bella screams. To the humans working below, it's probably lost in the death squeals of swine, but both Bella and Felix know that it will have been marked by the vampires already on alert in the building nearby. Felix reacts as she wagered he would: he leaps up snarling, holding her by the throat at arm's length. Within seconds, Demetri and another male vampire stand beside them.

"Jane's waiting," Demetri states, emotionless, while the nameless guard says nothing. Bella stares at Dima defiantly, accusing him with her eyes, but he avoids her gaze, looking instead at Felix, who huffs once, then sets Bella's feet to the rooftop but refuses to loosen his grip. Dima glances below, checking that there are no human witnesses in the back easement lying between their current location and the boarded up factory in which Edward is being held captive. Satisfied with this quick reconnaissance, the group of vampires step off the side of the building and land lightly amid the muck below. The filth they land in elicits a stronger reaction from Demetri than Bella's predicament, so she presumes that whatever friendship they had forged has been either forgotten or discarded. The additional guard remains mute, giving her little to work with there.

The trio of dark clad figures ushers her through the same doors Jane and Alec had entered earlier, Felix squeezing her throat roughly when she tries to look around. All she can see on first entering their den is a dimly lit, long and narrow room. The floor, once cement, is decaying and stained with the residue of the room's purpose: the carving of cattle. Pungent, even beneath the nightmarishly strong scent of Edward's blood, Bella can smell the deep stench that has soaked down into the soil. The room may no longer hold the large trestle tables used in the carving process, but the places they stood are marked forever to a nose as sensitive as Bella possesses. This same nose has her whipping her head around in spite of Felix's wrenching, has her staring at the horror of some seven or eight exsanguinated human corpses dumped haphazardly in the corner, searching frantically for Edward, the scent of whose blood intensifies with every step.

Impervious to Bella's distress, Dima leads their little party forward toward a battered wooden doorway, but before they can move through it, it opens, confronting them with three more enemies. At center, smirking gleefully is Jane. To her left, Mo Ying, the Chinese vampire Bella assumes is responsible for the erasure of all vampire scent. To Jane's right, dressed in a sable cloak even darker than Jane's, is a small brunette female. The avidness with which the woman's gaze flits between Bella and Demetri reveals her identity: this must be Chelsea, the maker and breaker of bonds, who ensures the Volturi guards remain loyal only to their masters. The male vampire who had accompanied Demetri moves quickly to Chelsea's side, so Bella assumes he is Afton, her mate, whom Alec had complained of earlier.

Bella would bargain every possession she has in the world for a hint of what Chelsea can see when she gazes at Bella and Demetri. Is he to be her savior or executioner? Upon the answer to that question, Bella suspects, hinges not only her future, but Edward's as well.

_And where is Edward?_ His blood screams at her from deeper within this tomblike space, and it is only because she has spent a century learning to deny her most essential desire that her thoughts retain the semblance of rationality.

Before she can react to so many strong stimuli at once, Felix shoves her to her knees. With his enormous fist gripping her neck from behind, she has little choice but to comply. Her gaze bleeds red with bloodlust, and she stares at Jane defiantly, refusing to be cowed.

"Isabella!" Jane cries delightedly, "You're rather early! Luckily, I am sufficiently prepared." Jane's happy gaze darts to her accomplices, "Thank you, Demetri, Felix, you've both been quite useful. You as well, Mo Ying - our guest has arrived, and you've earned a rest." Mo Ying makes a silent bow, and immediately Bella regains her full spectrum of smell. Not sure how long she will have use of this tool, Bella shoves aside the horrifically intoxicating scent of Edward's blood in order to quickly catalogue the scents of the six Volturi guards surrounding her, then adds Alec, who has not yet appeared, another stranger yet unknown, and – Bella's mask of indifference wavers – Carlisle! He's here! Then perhaps the unknown scent is Esme?

"Yes," Jane purrs, "I've arranged something of a family reunion for you. Shall we step into the other room and see what is in store?"

The demonic glee in Jane's face fills Bella with dread. She must be slow to respond, at least in Felix's opinion, because the huge guard proceeds to raise her up from the floor himself. Caught in his strangling grip, Bella can feel pressure cracks rise like deadly trees from her clavicles to her jaw.

"Felix!" Jane's tone has become viper sharp. "Don't forget what I told you – hurt her if you must, but do _not_ kill her." The fissures along her skin mend immediately, but Jane's words cannot be unheard. Bella's greatest fear – that she'll be forced to live with the knowledge of Edward's death forever etched in her mind – looms large as the hostile vampires push her through the doorway and into the next chamber. If Edward cannot be saved, Bella grimly determines, then she will have to provoke Felix into forgetting the little demon's orders.

All thought is shattered just three steps into the larger chamber, as Bella is confronted by a ghastly tableau. Alec stands in the center of the long room, and the ceiling hunches over them, seeming lower than it is because of the multitude of chains, pipes, and hooks that dangle from above like iron cobwebs. Probably once used to suspend the carcasses of dead cattle, one hideous hook remains occupied beside Alec. An unconscious Edward, strung up on a butcher's hook by his bound hands, hangs naked and beaten. Blood, his precious blood, seeps from a multitude of wounds, trickling down only to be caught in a dented aluminum pan beneath his feet. Bella stops breathing.

As if this were not torture enough, on Alec's other side stands Carlisle, his soft golden eyes staring at her unseeing, his face frozen in an expression of horror. Carlisle is clearly under Alec's influence, unable to offer any form of wisdom or absolution, the latter of which Bella is terrified she is likely to need because she can see the scenario Jane's evil soul has concocted: Bella is going to have to choose between the one who gave her a second chance at life and the one who makes that life worth living.

But Bella simply isn't malevolent enough to fully anticipate the depths of Jane's imagination. The crimson-eyed blonde waits until Bella has absorbed her dilemma, then winks at her playfully before stepping behind one of the large cement supports, returning with the final vampire Bella had scented from the other room. But it's not Esme; no, it's Meg.

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A/N: Thank you again for finishing this up with me. I'd love to hear what you're thinking, if you're so inclined to share. :)


	41. Chapter 37, The End

A/N: Once more, I want to offer my warm thanks to all of you who joined me on this journey, and especially to my prereader, CindyWindy, and defacto-beta, miaokuancha.

* * *

**Chapter 37**

**Bella**

**February, 1921 – Chicago, IL**

Bella's mind is a hornet's nest of emotions, a convoluted mix of joy, fear, dread, and hope. That Meg is alive, not dead and discarded somewhere, is an unexpected boon. That she is, essentially, one more hostage Jane has to hold against Bella is an unexpected blow.

Meg stands before them, held in the thrall of Alec's imposed blankness, clad in nothing but a soiled satin shift. The beauty of her figure, her luxuriant hair, her smudged but alabaster limbs all recede before the glowing scarlet eyes of a newborn vampire.

A newborn vampire standing two yards from Bella's bleeding human mate.

"No." The word leaves her in a whisper, as though expelled by a blow to the gut.

It appears to be all that Jane hoped for and more.

The demon-child feigns an exaggerated attitude of injury, turning from Bella to Meg. "Don't you like my little pet?" Her finger swipes down Meg's exposed arm from shoulder to finger tips in a distorted caress. "I'll admit that turning her was a bit of an accident," she looks at Bella and shrugs self-deprecatingly, "I may have gotten a bit carried away. But it's turned out rather nicely, I think. Who better to do the honors than his beloved cousin and your very dear friend?" Jane stoops down, swipes her fore finger in the blood collecting at Edward's feet, then stands and wipes a macabre red stripe across Meg's unresponsive lips.

Jane surveys her handiwork then steps towards Bella now in deadly earnest, "Are you ready to admit that your _family _is nothing but a farce?"

"Please…" even as the word escapes her lips, Bella knows it's useless. There's nothing within Jane capable of mercy. Still, desperation consumes her, and Bella can't help but stare at each enemy vampire in turn, begging with her eyes for some way out. Cold indifference meets her in every gaze, and in the end, her weakness only makes Jane giggle with pleasure.

Quick as thought, Jane moves so that Edward hangs between herself and Bella, then concentrates her gaze on the only wretched human in this place. Immediately Edward is roused to consciousness and his screams reverberate through the empty slaughterhouse. Jane ends the torture quickly, practically panting with anticipation as Edward blinks his eyes blearily and spies his wife before him, held in place by Felix's grip.

"Isabella?" Edward croaks, and it's clear he's uncertain whether she is real or a creation of his overtaxed mind. His voice is as broken as his body, and she longs to fall down at his feet in penitence for having brought him to such a state as this. Bella has little air left in her lungs and no words left in her heart, so she simply nods and lets her eyes speak her regret.

Galvanized by the realization that Bella is in fact tangibly present and obviously in danger, Edward bellows in equal parts pain and defiance as he fights vainly against his shackles, succeeding only in kicking the pan of blood that lies beneath him. The sound is unnaturally loud as it skids along the floor. Reflexively, every vampire in that room not under Alec's spell is riveted by the sight of the dented aluminum catching a flaw in the cement floor, flipping on its side, and spraying tantalizing drops of fragrant human blood across the three vampires who had, until now, simply hovered on the periphery of this tragic spectacle. Overcome with temptation, Chelsea, Afton, and Mo Ying are now instantly in motion.

Unwilling to allow an inadvertent mutiny to spoil her fun, Jane snaps, "Alec," but her brother has already anticipated her request, trapping the blood-thirsty vampires in his fog.

Still, Alec's irritation is clear, as he asks, "How many more, Sister?" in a tone of frustration.

Jane hisses back, "As many as it takes, _Brother," _pinning her twin with an officious look.

Felix's attention too has shifted for just a fraction of a moment to track the blood splatter, and sensing this fact, Bella throws herself forward with all her might. Felix, who had loosened his grip at Jane's admonishment not to kill Bella, tries to move with her as she springs, but she twists out of his grasp. Thwarted, he leaps towards her, but Bella anticipates this and is already rolling out of his reach again. Even so, he is the stronger fighter and quickly outmaneuvers her. As he lands a harsh blow to her ribcage, knocking Bella roughly to the ground, the attack is abruptly cut short. The discordant sound of vampire flesh ripping apart breaks through the din of Edward's screams, which had hit a new, strident note when he saw Bella attacked. Startled by both the noise of death and the cessation of Felix's assault, Bella looks up to discover Dima looming over her, Felix's severed head in his hands.

She has no time to question his unexpected allegiance but her gratitude is clear. Dima's eyes warm as he takes stock of her expression of relief, the way she hunches protectively, favoring her left side where she's certain Felix broke several ribs. He leans down, supporting her weight with his arm around her waist, ready to help her stand. Bella accepts his aid even as she looks up to see Jane's malevolent gaze fasten on Demetri, the will to harm clear in her face.

Again a startlingly unexpected sound rends the air: Jane's screams.

Jane falls to her knees, shrieking, writhing as though she endured the flames of hell. Which in a way, Bella guesses, she does. Bella is sure that Jane had not aimed that attack on her, but on Demetri, and that means that Bella has somehow, unwittingly, extended her mirror's protection to her savior. She'd like to sit and marvel at this turn of events, but she simply does not have the luxury to do so. She's not sure if proximity is enough, if her unconscious intent somehow directed her shield, or whether it required physical contact, but she's not going to take any chances – she grasps hard at Demetri's hand as she stands on her own and vows not to let it go until those infernal twins are ash.

Jane's eyes as she recovers from her self-inflicted anguish are murderous. Bella knows with a bone-deep certainty that Jane won't be taking her to Volterra today, regardless of Aro's orders – the homicidal gleam has eclipsed all other notions. "Well, well, Isabella, that was rather unexpected. Interesting that you found it in you to protect your little lapdog but couldn't be bothered to extend your gift to include your _husband._" As she completes this taunt, Jane's gaze flicks to Edward, who had been staring hard at Bella and Demetri's joined hands until Jane's malice grips him, and his blood-curdling cries echo off the cement walls of the slaughterhouse.

Dima grabs Bella's arm while tightening his hold on her hand. Jane cackles at Bella's distress and shifts her attention to Demetri.

"I see you, Demetri Olegovich Rusakov. I see Felix, dead by your hand. Why couldn't Chelsea bind you to Aro's purpose, I wonder? Could it be you're already bound?" A terrible knowledge fills Bella, confronts her with the truth about Dima's feelings that she refused to acknowledge before. Bella looks at her friend, who refuses to return her gaze, but his evasion speaks volumes. Heartbroken, Bella feels fundamentally conflicted – she would never wish to exploit the love Dima holds for her, but she will sacrifice every person in this room, Carlisle, Meg, and Demetri included, if it means that Edward can live.

Jane's smile widens impossibly larger, consuming her deceptively angelic face. She reaches up, laying her hand flat against Edward's chest, just over his beating heart. Trussed up as he is, his range of movement is small, but Edward's torso cringes away from her touch. He looks as though he's about to speak, to say something inflammatory or defiant, but instead, his screams rend the air. Just as abruptly, the torture ceases, and Edward's body can only quake while his lungs pant their distress.

"I'm not sure how much more he can take," Jane says, in feigned concern. She rubs her hand down his abdomen, then turns towards Bella and Demetri as she licks the blood off her hand. Staring into Bella's eyes, she observes, "He's been bleeding for an awfully long time now." Jane's wicked gaze swoops to Demetri as she asks, "Are you sure you really want to try to save this boy, Demetri? Wouldn't you prefer to watch him die?"

Bella's red-tinted vision quivers. Rage. Terror. She's not quite sure. But in the second that lies between Jane's question and Dima's response, Bella discovers that she can _flex_ this reflective shield, looks hard at Dima beside her and can _see _it hovering over them, as though alive. She carefully drops Dima's hand and the reflective shield remains, hovering over them both. Focused and desperate, Bella shoves against its borders, pushing it across the room until it hovers just shy of Carlisle. Exultant possibility rushes through her, giving her hope.

Dima, though, chuckles bitterly, and Bella turns toward him as he raises his head, opens eyes that had closed under Jane's rapacious gaze. "You foolish child," Dima breathes, and Jane's expression hardens into a mask of cold hatred. He continues in a tone that exudes pity and more than a touch of condescension, "You know nothing of love."

A hiss of rage rises in the throats of both Jane and Alec as though they are one being.

Bella pulls strength from Dima's bravery and shoves her reflective shield forward, encompassing Carlisle. Doing so rebounds Alec's numbness back on him and releases all the vampires held in his thrall.

Demetri must guess at the cause of Alec's unexpected lapse into blankness - he is quick to respond, ruthlessly snapping Chelsea's neck before full awareness settles upon her and moving immediately to her mate, whose talent of invisibility gains him little against the ultimate tracker. Dispatching both seasoned Volturi guards, Demetri moves to attack their newest recruit only to find that Mo Ying has fled. Finding him, even without a scent trail, would pose no problem for Dima, but he's needed here.

As for Carlisle, he seems to greet reality with a whispered lament. As the name "Esme" slides from his lips, Carlisle pivots to face his beloved's killer, who is still caught in that momentary expression of his own gift of nothingness, and savagely wrenches Alec's head from his shoulders. Jane's scream of protest rises above all other noise.

For her part, Bella had sprung towards Edward from the moment she knowingly pushed against Alec's cloud of blankness, anticipating that disabling Alec would mean enabling a whole host of blood-thirsty vampires, most especially his starving newborn cousin. Leaping into the air and using the chains suspended from the ceiling to propel herself towards her mate faster, Bella moves with a speed she has never before known. It is almost enough.

Awareness brings instantaneous thirst, and Meg sinks her teeth deep into Edward's thigh, exulting in the rich taste that promises her a long-denied satiety. This final attack sends Edward's screams of suffering to a crescendo before they are choked off by unconsciousness. Bella tackles Meg at a full sprint, ripping her from her prey, and landing in a heap of snarls and skirts. Bella counts time in Edward's heartbeats, and she is hyper-aware that her time-keeper is faltering as shock, blood-loss, and torture overwhelm his frail human body. She doesn't want to kill Meg, just keep her from further harm, but blocking the newborn's deadly strength is costing Bella precious moments that she can't afford to waste.

"_Carlisle!" _she shrieks with desperation as she eludes a clumsily direct, yet potentially fatal attack from Meg, who is consumed by the need to slake her thirst. "Help Edward!"

But Carlisle is lost in grief, apparently intent on self-destruction. He had stared at the shattered pieces of Alec's corpse then looked up, seeking out Jane's malevolent stare. No longer safely tucked beneath the aegis of Bella's reflective shield, Carlisle strides towards Jane as though anticipating the torture she will bestow. She does not disappoint. No sound escapes him, but he writhes in agony before her, too deep within the flames Jane is inflicting to hear Bella's cry.

Unexpectedly, or perhaps not so unexpectedly, it's Demetri who saves Edward.

Dima hears Bella's call to Carlisle and, taking in the immediacy of the crisis, moves quickly to the wall, working a rusty crank that lowers the butcher's hook until Edward's body rests on the floor. Then he bites the rope binding Edward's wrists together and shoves the boy's shoulders back into their sockets. Demetri quickly seals the sizeable wound on Edward's thigh, then moves to the multitude of other lacerations, using each to inject just a bit more venom. Edward's survival remains precarious at best, but Dima's done everything he can to save Bella's love, even ushered him into immortality if all goes well.

Throughout their tussling, Bella has spoken gently, trying to reach Meg with words of comfort and reassurance, reminding her of who she is. Nothing but bloodlust seems present in the newborn's face, and only feral snarls come from her blood-smeared lips. When Meg nearly succeeds in reaching Edward again, Bella realizes the only way to save him is to get him out of here quickly.

She expects to make the appeal to Carlisle, and so is shocked to see Carlisle on his knees before a wrathful Jane, while Dima tends to Edward's injuries. Distracted, Bella misjudges Meg's next swing and feels her shoulder bones give beneath Meg's immense strength. For all their sakes, this battle must end quickly.

Calling to Demetri, Bella's voice cracks with emotion, "Dima! Take Edward and go. _Please._" It's clear from his expression that he dislikes the request, hesitates to abandon her, but ultimately, Demetri obeys, scooping up the broken boy and running out of the building. With the object of temptation removed from her immediate vicinity, some sanity appears in Meg's crimson eyes, and Bella redoubles her efforts to coax Meg into some semblance of herself. _One thing at a time_, she thinks, praying that Carlisle can hold on, that Edward can survive.

She begins her mantra again, "You are Margaret Anne Stewart, beloved cousin of Edward Anthony Masen, and my friend. You are more than this thirst. We met over Dickens, and I introduced you to Austen. You play the piano and, according to Edward, you are insufferably precocious. You are Meg. You are more than this thirst. You loved your sister, Evangeline, and you still grieve for the deaths of your parents and sister in the outbreak of the Spanish Flu. You are kind and generous, mischievous and smart. You are more than this thirst. Come back to us, Meg." With each sentence Bella speaks, the fight slowly leeches out of Meg, until the poor girl falls into Bella's arms, weeping dry tears.

"Enough of this ridiculous sentimentality." Jane's cold voice cuts through the moment of reunion. Both Meg and Bella whip their heads up, and Bella freezes at the awful sight before her.

She'd been so focused on saving Edward, on reclaiming Meg, Bella is startled to see the broken corpses of nearly every Volturi guard littering the floor, but she is most terrified to see Carlisle on his knees facing her. Pressed close behind him, Jane stands in a distorted semblance of an embrace, with one arm crossing his torso, while the other crosses over his chest. It's the way a lover might embrace her beloved. It's the way a vampire might deliver death.

Carlisle's golden eyes lock on hers, and Bella reads the single word with which he gifts her. Overcome, Bella drops her head, eyes closed, but she cannot stop the sound of her brother's death from reaching her.

_Will it never end? _Bella wonders, not yet ready to raise her eyes and look upon Carlisle's final death.

An image of Xi Feng rises in her mind – sitting on a golden throne, puppeteer to countless immortal beings. Infinite possibility cut short. _Such a waste_. Bella remembers Xi Feng's question: _How long until the Volturi kings decide that you too pose too great a threat?_ How long indeed?

And to buy her time, to protect the remnants of her family, one more death is required. _So be it._

Coiled tightly, each in her own wrath and grief, Jane and Bella spring at one another, the sound of their collision filling the air. Their fight isn't beautiful, isn't anything like a choreographed dance. It's all desperation and snarling, shrill screams and frustration. These immortal furies range throughout the decrepit factory space, toppling, overturning, destroying all in their determination to end one another. Meg at first seems uncertain, distracted by the multitude of stimuli around her, but instinctively responsive to the bellicose intentions of the pair of fighters.

Suddenly the brawling vampires close in on her location, and Meg, spooked, leaps into the fray, striking out indiscriminately at friend and foe alike. Meg lunges in, squeezing Jane tightly, and both women scream in pain – Jane as her ribs crack, Meg as she's hit by Jane's psychic gift. Bella seizes her opportunity, grabs Jane just under her ears, plants a foot on the girl's shoulder, and wrenches her head from her body.

_Please let it be over_, she prays, too exhausted to wonder if anyone out there is listening to prayers from one such as she. Still holding the gorgon's head, Bella surveys the destruction around her.

_Many things are over_, Bella thinks when Meg calms enough to speak rationally, gazing up at her friend with the bloody eyes of a newborn. Numbness settles in as Bella piles the vampire remains, but crumbles as she gently rests Carlisle's body on the pile. Bella strikes a match, then she and Meg limp towards the door. Purple smoke fills the hideous space that stood witness to the end of both Edward's and Meg's human lives, the end of Carlisle's compassion and Jane's hate.

_Many things are over_, Bella thinks as she runs beside Meg, whose hand grips Bella's with a terrible desperation, _but Aro's wrath is not one of them. And there will be a reckoning for what I have done today. _It didn't escape Bella's notice that the Chinese vampire was not among the corpses, and Bella imagines Mo Ying running, sprinting across the plains of the MidWest towards Aro's court, bearer of bad news, but more importantly: alive.

As Bella is. As Edward is. And Meg. And Dima. So even if she knows that pain lurks on the horizon, for now she will simply be grateful for second chances, and third…

Meg's voice breaks into Bella's ruminations, "What did Carlisle say? You know…just before…"

Bella smiles and speaks aloud her brother's final commission: "_Live._"

The End

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A/N: I do have a little epilogue for you (and an extra tidbit or two), which I'll post tomorrow, but really, that is the end of my story. I'd love to hear what you think. Blessings, jackiejones


	42. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_October 1, 1953_

_Dear Meggie,_

_We have house guests. Disconcerting, discomfiting intruders. Disturbing, distressing interlopers. _

_I would ask you whether this sense of trespass is how my own gift affects you, but of course, I _know_ that it is. I know that it's why you stay away. I know you feel guilty for it. If only I could turn the table about, show you my guilt as well. Guilt and, if I am brave enough to confess it, loneliness, even with these new invaders hanging about. Bella is my other half, but Meg, you are _family_. I wish you'd find your way home._

_And, it appears, that our home is to be besieged for some time, as these strange meddlers seem intent on staying – Alice, the female, especially rejects the term 'houseguest,' using the term _sibling_ as often as she can. And her siege is not even limited to words, Meg; she bombards me with images of the future, pictures of her and me romping about, engaging in a merry war of snow balls, far into the future. Jasper, her mate, is far more wary, but who can blame him, covered as he is in the scars of war? Add to that, as I am cursed to hear the thoughts of others, he feels their every emotion. _

_All but my beautiful Bella. I think we're all drawn to her because she is a blank to each of us, tucked safely behind that mirrored shield, a blessed escape from so much _knowing_. Bella will laugh at something, and I watch every one of us react with a thrilling sense of surprise. Alice didn't know she would laugh. Jasper doesn't have to feel her joy. I have no idea what she's thinking. Meg, do you know how rare it is – this not knowing? We orbit her, reveling in this smallest taste of humanity, and Meg it is addictive. I wonder – is this love a product of my rebirth? It seems as though the vastness of my transformed mind should explain this penchant for living life, attending to the things around me, while also maintaining a _constant awareness_ of my amazing good fortune in securing the love of this woman; however, even my haziest memories of _before_ exude this same awareness. Even my limited human mind never ceased to worship her - now I just see her with clearer eyes._

_Come home, Meg. Let my eyes feast upon the sight of your mischief. Give me an ally against this annoying hobgoblin who threatens me with a future of her friendship. Bella is of no use – she laughs at me. I promise to do my best to respect the privacy of your mind – (Alice interrupts me here with an offer to teach you Swahili, though how that is relevant I have no idea as her mind is a rather confusing vortex of insanity and I try not to delve too deeply lest I get caught in the undertow). Come north – we (and unfortunately, that we encompasses all four of us) plan to relocate to the property where you first awoke – the one where you planted about a thousand tulips – and we all (and yes, that too strangely encompasses all four of us, though I shouldn't count Jasper, as he can't exactly help feeling as we do) long to see you._

_Your beloved and much besieged cousin,_

_Edward_

_P.S. – Bella encloses a book for your perusal and general edification (though I protest tossing so much fuel on an already well stoked fire): __Le Deuxième Sexe__by Simone Beauvoir. She says to tell you to avoid the English translation by Parshley (she uses a word that I'll not transcribe and that is frankly unbecoming of a woman of her—_

It's shit, Meg (don't let Edward's prissiness water it down). But I think you'll enjoy reading this one – the original, in French. Perhaps we could chat about it – in person ? Love and miss you, Bella


	43. Out-take (Chap11 BPOV)

A/N: Here is a little out-take that I wrote a while ago: a BPOV version of the lovers' first meeting (truly BPOV - not filtered through the 3rd person POV that I wrote the story in). You may want to go back and refresh yourself on Chap 11-12 from Edward's point of view before you read it. Fair warning: this was never beta'd, so it is probably rather rough as it was mostly for me to get my head around her reaction to meeting her singer so that I could portray that reaction through Edward's eyes. :)

* * *

**Bella**

**Chicago, 1918**

I can smell him before I can see him. It grows stronger by the second – this tantalizing scent that swells and grows, filling my senses with a strange, powerful longing. They all smell different – some pleasant, and others less so, but from the very first moment of this new life, I never found it terribly difficult to abstain. Stare a bit too long at the paper thin skin covering pulsing veins, and I usually find myself feeling off balance and nauseated. Mind over matter, Carlisle says, but I suspect my mind is somehow irreparably broken, leaving me skittish and repulsed by the thought of consuming the life blood that my vampire nature ought to find alluring.

That changes in the instant that I become aware of his scent. It's light, not cloying like some, and hints at young oak trees reaching for the sun. It's a revelation. If the human race all smelled as he does, I would bathe in its life force. For a moment I imagine this – floating on my back in a lake of sweet red blood – and I feel myself quivering, not with distaste as I expect, but a yearning. There can never be enough of this scent, even if I could swim in it for eternity.

I am moving through the throngs of people, painted smile upon my face and just a veneer of politeness to mask the desperation I feel. I thought these people were unappetizing before? Now the orchid scented blood of this diamond studded socialite or the heavy set man before me, who reeks of body odor and dyed wool, make me want to shout. They're crowding out the only scent in the world that I want to consume, want to be consumed by.

_Too fast, slow down_, I tell myself, gripping the reins of my human façade and hoping the vampire thirst doesn't show through. The evening breeze is my best friend, flowing from behind him and caressing me with a smell that makes me think of new books and possibility. He is handsome, and my first thought is _of course_. It seems completely natural that he is young and turns the heads of countless young ladies in his vicinity. His auburn hair is restless, and it makes me smile. Just like his intoxicating smell, I can tell by looking at his hair and then into his eyes that he won't be easily contained.

_Lord, help me._ It's one of the more sincere prayers I've prayed since waking to eternal damnation and then eventually becoming a vampire.

I perceive by his proximity that he must be Edward Masen, Meg's cousin, of whom she speaks with such undimmed adoration. She sees me approaching and quickly introduces us. I want to laugh at her obvious delight in bringing us together, but I'm a little afraid of what might happen if I actually open my mouth. I might be fine. After all, I've made it this far without harming anyone, but then I've never met anyone who posed such a temptation.

My all-too-potent imagination takes over again, and this time I think of stepping in closer, brushing my nose slowly and gently along the pink softness of his neck, licking it sensuously and eliciting a moan from both of us, and then silently and so slowly, sinking my teeth into the perfection offered before me, drawing the glorious nectar from his body into mine, consuming him completely.

These dangerous thoughts are lent gravitas as I watch with fascination as he flushes, blood rushing up to the surface of his beautiful face as though to greet me. Carlisle's voice sounds in my head, warning me to stop breathing, and even when it's really just my conscience, I trust Carlisle enough to instinctively obey. Edward is clearly mortified by Meg's remark, but he surprises me with the ease with which he switches from potential offense to generous fondness, even dares to tease me as he remarks, "I am afraid I'm rather protective of Meg here, and you seem to be a bad influence on her."

And that is the moment that I begin to suspect that the person Edward Masen is far more dangerous than his tantalizing scent.

I should be running away from the desire I have to kill this boy. I should be holding my breath if I am foolhardy enough to remain in his presence. Instead, I am quirking an eyebrow at him and responding to his barb. "A bad influence, really? Meg tells me your favorite author is Tennyson. Is there anything more dangerous to a young girl than building up her faith in chivalry these days?"

Any hope of an intelligent dialogue is quashed when my challenge is met with silence. I have seen that look before – Edward Masen has fallen prey to my vampire charms. _How predictable_, I think, feeling just a bit disappointed, but a baser part of me is delighted that he is so obviously smitten, and therefore far easier to maneuver – should I choose to indulge in a way that I never have before. Which I will not do. Obviously.

"Edward?" Meg is distressed by Edward's inattention, asking, "Are you alright?" I want to chuckle at her naivete, but she is really a lovely child.

I can hear the galloping of his heart, so it's no surprise to me when Edward makes his excuse and flees my presence. _Good for him_, I think, hoping that between his sense of self-preservation and my (shaky) conscience, we might both make it through the night in one piece. But it's only a moment before his mother, a woman of whom I am genuinely fond, appears at my side and asks me to fetch him back again. She's not fooling anyone – we both know why she's suggesting I be the one to seek him out, and I could certainly find an excuse to avoid him if I truly wanted to, but you see – I don't (really want to). I want to breathe him in. And I want to hold him close. And I might want to talk to him some more. But mostly I want to lick every drop of his delicious blood.

He's standing outside, hiding. If I were just a girl, the embarrassment he's so obviously feeling about his cowardly exit would be justified, but I'm not just a girl and I should reassure him that running from me was the very smartest thing he could do. Instead, I merely ask him, "Mister Masen? Are you ill?"

In the moonlight, he's even more delectable. The soft glow and the light breeze combine in a way that is enchanting.

_You're more than this_. Again with Carlisle's persistent (and slightly annoying) appeal to my better nature. He's right though – I know all too well what it is to have someone suck the life from me, cast me aside as little more than refuse. I won't do that to anyone, not even this handsome young man with blood that sings to me. With the decision made, I'm able to swallow the venom pooling in my mouth and talk to him. "Would you like me to fetch someone for you? Your father, perhaps?" It's a subtle manipulation, but it achieves its purpose – there's no way this young pup is going to agree to be collected by his father.

As I expect, the question strengthens his spine, and he responds, "No, indeed, I am quite well. Thank you, Miss Cullen. Perhaps we should return?" There's a moment, as he moves around me and begins the trek back into the theater full of bodies that will futilely compete with his blood's siren song, where it's not a violent taste I crave. _His lips look so soft_. It's an errant thought, and out of character for me, given the reality of _before_. My years as a vampire haven't been spent in sexual repression – there's been no sexual drive to repress. But this boy, on the cusp of manhood, dressed in skin that radiates warmth and a delicious fragrance, this is a boy I could want, though I've not wanted anyone in nearly a century.

It's with my thought in this racy vein that the chivalrous Edward Masen suggests I return to the theater separate from him, so as not to sully my reputation. Propriety requires that I cordially thank him and move on my way, but I cannot. I don't want to. Instead, I test the waters once more, see if his mind is as attractive as his blood and face suggest.

"And what do you fear they will say, Mister Masen? You have already branded me a corrupter of the youth. Am I now to be seducing attractive young men?" It's a very Oscar Wilde thing to do – to speak the truth with a brash tone of irony and dare him to identify it as such.

He deflects instead, saying with a feigned tone of sophistication, "Let us hope not. Let us pray that the youth of today possess such moral fortitude that they are above corruption, whether it arrives via novels or a bit of polite conversation."

It's not as though he means anything to me – or at least, nothing positive – but there's a barb in his statement that pricks more keenly than I expect. Without censoring myself, I ask, "Polite conversation? Is that all it was?" If I had a beating heart, it would race as his does now. Stupid, impetuous mouth, constantly getting me into trouble.

I suspect we're both relieved when Edward's mother finds us then, cutting the tension that my ill-advised question had ratcheted up to an uncomfortable level. She's full of self-satisfied delight as she draws near, exclaiming over my success and explaining that it was she who sent me on my errand. I wonder how delighted she would be if she were to know that her matchmaking might have ended in Edward's violent death. No, I'm not exactly what most mothers would wish for.

Somewhere in the midst of this brief exchange, I realize that an entirely silent conversation is taking place. It's their heart beats that give it away – on the surface the conversation is pleasant and innocuous, but almost simultaneously, mother and son's heart rates accelerate. I try to catch the subtext, but there's a veil of intimacy between them that I can't penetrate. I am just about to make my excuses and leave when Mrs. Masen invites me to join them in their seats, and if I justify accepting her offer with the idea that Carlisle would expect me to demonstrate impeccable manners, I don't examine my reasons too closely.

In the seats, we greet Meg, and again I perceive that a silent conversation is taking place between Edward and his relatives. This one is less subtle – it's clear that Meg expects an explanation, even if she's begrudgingly willing to wait. I get a distinctly impolite enjoyment from the resulting scowl on Edward's face. Perhaps it's best to ignore him for a while – or at least to appear to do so. There's no ignoring the way every breath he expels clouds my head with his sweet scent.

To irritate him, I turn to Meg and initiate a conversation on the novelist Edward deems unworthy of her time. We discuss the merits of _Pride and Prejudice_ and why Mister Darcy is infinitely preferable to Edmund Bertram in _Mansfield Park_. Apparently my shocking suggestion that Fanny Price is too boring, as evidenced by her refusal to risk pain for passion in the form of Henry Crawford offends Edward, as this is the point in the conversation that he interrupts to assert, "Fanny Price is absolutely right to dismiss the attentions of Henry Crawford. The man is a scoundrel. Fanny has an uncompromising moral compass. Her determination to resist the pressure of all dissenting opinions and hold on to what she knows to be right demonstrates just how unworthy Henry Crawford is of her good opinion. The man cannot decide what he wants."

My thoughts and feelings riot a bit inside. _Is it such a crime to be indecisive?_ I wonder. Apparently in Edward Masen's world it is. There's no room in such a simplistic worldview for a vegetarian vampire who cannot stomach the stupidity of war but can contemplate murdering an innocent boy. Still, however much I want to cry for the infinite hues of gray in which I dwell, I can't help taking offense at the priggishness of his opinion. It's immature of me, I know, but I indulge myself and toss a superior smirk his way, then negate his position with a false expression of gratitude: "I believe that is a very popular reading of those characters, Mr. Masen, thank you."

I expect that he'll withdraw like a good little boy, but instead, he holds his own, asking, "And am I to understand by that remark that a popular opinion is, in your judgment, necessarily flawed?"

His question conjures images from the many decades that I've existed, the plethora of popular opinions that I've witnessed come and go. It's not contempt so much as weariness that characterizes my tone as I answer, "In my experience, popular opinions often appeal to a wide multitude for reasons wholly unconnected to truth or merit."

I am ready for this conversation to end, to turn my attention elsewhere, to find this boy less engaging, less tempting, just...LESS.

He isn't cooperating.

"But you will admit," Edward continues, "in fairness, that an opinion held by a majority of people is not _necessarily_ incorrect. It might be a popular opinion and, incidentally, also be correct?" And of course, in fairness, how can I deny his claim? I'll admit that my concession is given begrudgingly, but I do nod, and he continues, "So besides the popularity of my reading of Fanny Price, what flaw do you find in my assessment?"

And there it is. Written clearly on his face: desire. He is hungry for my words, for my thoughts, and I, wretch that I am, still sit here hungry for his blood, and even more dangerously, hungry for his love.

So I shut him out, push him away, prick his pride with a false air of indifference and the politeness of my smile as I answer, "As to that, Mr. Masen, I suppose your reading of the characters is as valid as my own." My words pat him on the head, and then I pour out my delighted attention on Meg so that he may feel the difference and find himself (safely) dismissed.

But he won't be dismissed, this Edward Masen. He won't slink quietly to the sidelines. He inserts himself once more, just as the lights go down, and with racing heart and a defiant gaze uses Jane Austen as a weapon.

And that is when I know: I'm completely fucked. Who but me could be so insanely foolish as to fall in love with a mortal man whose every heartbeat is an exquisite torture? How can this ever end well?


End file.
